Path of Ruin

Erica Myers
Copyright © 2024 Erica Myers
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means
including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical means, including information
storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief
quotations in a book review and certain noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.
This product is a work of fiction. Any names, characters, places, or incidents are products of the
author’s imagination and used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual people, places, or
events is purely coincidental or fictional.
ISBN: 9798879233377

To my favorite people.
To my mom. My person. My biggest supporter and my oldest best friend.
To my sister. My biggest hype woman and youngest best friend.
I love you both un chingo.

CHAPTER 1

“Dammit, Peia,” my brother barks, his leg colliding with yet another raised
tree root. The woods are deserted at this time of night, the racket from our
bickering the only sound for miles. “You know, you’re a real pain in the ass
sometimes. I don’t know how you always manage to talk me into playing
this stupid fucking game.”
My responding laugh travels freely, the sound reverberating
through the trees, echoing deep into the forest. “Oh c’mon, Kai. Why do you
insist on being unnecessarily difficult? You used to love playing with us.”
“That was before you and Eon started cheating,” he clips, ducking
beneath a low hanging branch.
“We don’t cheat, we just… strategize a bit. No harm.” Blatant lie.
We cheat, but I feign innocence, jumping for a flower from the same branch.
I tuck the small bud into the leather chord holding my braid together, the
bright magenta a stark contrast against the midnight hue of my strands.
“Sure, Peia. Whatever you say.”
We carry on deeper into the woods until the light from our village
has all but vanished, hidden fully behind the menacing foliage. Out here in
the darkness the air around us sparks to life, the creatures of the night
making their presence known. The wind dances along the folds of my tunic,
caressing my exposed arms. The warm breeze lingers on my skin, cooling
the sweat pooling at my back. I keep my tread light, my boots silent, as we
continue our game of tracking, of searching for our brother among the
undergrowth.
“He couldn’t have possibly made it this far into the woods,” my
brother calls over his shoulder. “We must’ve missed him. Probably walked
right by him.”
“No, if he’d been close, I would’ve found a trace.”
Since before I can remember, my brother and I have been playing
this game of hunter and prey. One of us would hide amongst the trees that
surrounded our family’s compound, while the other would search. The game
would end when the prey was found or when the night grew too dark, and
we were summoned home by the guards. Eon was included in our
expeditions when he was finally old enough to run. We tried inviting Iren,
the youngest of us, but she much preferred studying the greenery rather
than running through it.
I study my brother, gouging his reaction. Calling into question his
skill as a hunter is one way to ensure a sparring match. Examining me over
his shoulder, eyes lit with amusement he clips out, “Are you implying my
tracking so abysmal, I can’t find my own brother?”
 “Not at all,” I respond, my voice laced with mirth, “I’m merely
implying, I’m better.”
Partial truth.
Although Kai is a fine tracker by day, my ability to detect movements at
night is unparalleled. My mother used to tell me my eyes were blessed by
Theia, the Titan goddess of sight. At one time I was led to believe the stories
she told me were truths, absolutes.
But now I know better.
The gods have long since forsaken us. The Titans nothing more than
ancient tales and fables.
“Has anyone ever told you your arrogance is incredibly
unbecoming?” Kai questions.
“Never! I’ve been told it’s one of my more endearing qualities.” I
hear my brother’s barking laughter a moment before I’m shoved into the
nearest bush. Pushing to my feet with a curse I warn, “I swear to the moon,
if there’s even a single drop of blood on this tunic, I’ll make you scrub it
until your fingers bleed.” Kai only shrugs. I continue following close at his
heels, scanning the dirt for a stone large enough to leave a dent in that skull
of his.
“Tonight’s a piss poor excuse for a full moon. I can’t see a foot in
front of me,” my brother mumbles.
“It’s not the moon’s fault your eyesight’s so poor. And more to the
point, the moon isn’t even at its fullest tonight.” Crouching low, I find the
perfect ammunition for my upcoming assault hidden in a tangle of roots.
“So now you happen to be an expert on the moon as well? Tell me,
is there no bounds to your greatness Hypatia?” The use of my full name has
me firing my first shot, a clear warning. Kai knows me better than anyone,
knows the irritation the use of that name invokes.
“Has anyone ever told you Valakai, that jealousy is incredibly
unbecoming?” I smile to myself, reaching for a second stone. “Besides,
there’s no greatness involved. The moon and I happen to be old friends.”
He stalls his trampling, the full weight of his smirk fixed on me.
“Tell me Pei, how exactly does one come to befriend the moon?”
Shrugging, I croon, “Oh, it’s not so hard. Simply marvel at her
beauty and she’ll entrust you with all her secrets.”
“Your friend sounds incredibly vain,” he responds with a laugh. I
take a moment to savor that sound, to study the young man before me. His
ebony hair has grown out, the ends touching his shoulder blades, the icy
hue of his eyes barely discernable at this time of night. I feel the slightest
flutter in the pit of my stomach, for there’s nothing on this wretched earth
that brings me greater comfort than to hear my brother joke and laugh once
again.
Kai hasn’t relaxed since the night our compound in Nymphai was
raided, the night our parents were slaughtered defending our territory. My
father, the once great Beta of Nymphai, was betrayed and targeted by the
Pack for the acquisition of power. My elder brother is the one who got my
siblings and I out of the Citadel, away from the carnage. For three weeks
Kai kept us alive while we journeyed north into the Forsaken Lands. If it
weren’t for him, we all would’ve perished long before reaching the Tyche
Omega Tribe. Even with a newly appointed Beta of Nymphai, Kai still fears
the Pack will come for us. It’s nights such as these that the innocent boy my
brother once was seeps through the cracks in the cold shell of the man he is
now.
We tread on until we reach Hecate’s Pass, an area of the woods
where two of the old walking trails converge forming a crossroads. Legend
has it, the Dark Moon goddess herself used to conduct deals of darkness at
this very spot with any soul foolish enough to call upon her. I’m about to
suggest we summon the goddess to aid with our search when the sentiment
dies off, the words ripped away and left to oblivion. For somewhere in the
distance people are screaming, the sound piercing through the night
straight from the bow of Apollo.
“Did you hear that?” I ask foolishly, the panic unmistakable,
turning back towards our home. “It has to be coming from the
village.”
“What are you…” The second round of screams stops my brother short.
“It has to be the Pack,” I tell him. “They’ve found us.”
The monsters of Lyca never venture this far into the Forsaken Lands
without a purpose. These must be Beta Jakobian’s soldiers, the beasts of
Krua. Kai doesn’t hesitate, gripping me tightly by the shoulders, urging me
to meet his eyes.
“Get back to Iren, find somewhere to hide, and wait for me. I’ll get Eon
and come back for you,” he vows. As he turns to leave, I snatch hold of his
arm, yanking him back to me. My grasp is firm, unyielding, my fear vast, a
crushing wave beating down upon me. He’s my lifeline, my tether, the only
safety I’m certain of. I can’t allow him to slip away just yet.
“Protect her, Peia.”
With that, my brother is gone.
I turn our conversation over in mind until I come across his command
once again. Get back to Iren. The thought of my sister returns me to my
senses, guilt filling me to the core. The fear that had once threatened to
paralyze me is replaced by something stronger, fiercer. True purpose.
My sister is depending on me, and I refuse to fail her.
I force my feet to move, each pounding step propelling me back towards
the village, back towards my new Tyche home. My pace is merciless, but my
stride never wavers, each step bringing me closer, fueling my resolve. I pray
to any gods left above to give me wings, for I need to travel faster.
Within minutes I’ve made it to the edge of the thicket near our home, the
day’s linens now in view, gently billowing between the trees. My pace turns
cautious, my movements quiet and calculating. Now is not the time for
mistakes.
As I inch my way towards the old oak that marks the exit from the
woods, the recurring screams are no longer just indecipherable sounds in
the distance. No, now I’m able to make out the words. These are pleas for
life, cries for mercy.
People are dying and it’s because of us.
The thought makes me shudder, but I can’t allow my guilt to overtake
me, to disable me, to render me useless. I need to keep moving. I must find
my sister.
With the rear of our cabin in now sight, I unsheathe the knife at my boot,
silently stepping out from behind the old tree. Nothing seems to be amiss,
but I’m still careful not to make a sound as I make my way around to the
front door. My foot has just brushed the first step of the porch when I hear
that blood curdling scream. I don’t think, instinct forcing me into action. I
race up the last remaining steps, tearing through the front door, the thick
oak groaning on its hinges.
Before I’m able to fully register the barbaric scene around me, I notice
him. The soldier covered in ink, his arms stained with black. I’m able to
identify this soldier by his marks, his tattoos, they speak to the monster he
serves. I’ve heard stories of these soldiers my entire life. I know their area
of expertise, what each tattoo represents. They’re wolves of The Dire, the
bringers of death and destruction. These are Beta Jakobian’s elite fighters,
his most lethal weapons.
And one of them is standing above my sister’s bed.
My sister is screaming, struggling against him, neither yet noticing my
presence. With his back still towards me, I close the remaining gap between
us in a few quick strides. Drawing near, I plunge my knife deep, the blading
sliding home below his left shoulder. My aim is off, his heart slightly lower
than I anticipated. He howls out in pain as I yank the blade free.
“Stupid bitch!” he roars.
My attempt to land another strike fails as he rears back, hurling me into
the bedside table. The impact has me tumbling to the floor, the steel slipping
from my grasp. Within seconds his hands are clasped firmly around my
arms, flipping me unto my back. As he sits straddling me, his knees pinning
my arms to the floor, I get my first good look at this monster.
He’s young, not much older than I, his fawn hued skin a sharp contrast
against the raven ink of his stains. He’s vile, with his crooked nose and
rotten smile, the look in his pitch-black eyes’ pure predator. Struggling
against him, I manage to break my right arm free. My fingers inch towards
the dagger, my movements wild, frantic. Oblivious, he lowers his mouth to
my ear, his breath repulsively warm against my neck.
“I’m going to enjoy this,” he murmurs.
And my blood boils.
The implication.
Out of options, I lean forward as much as possible, my shot of saliva
spraying out across his face. He raises his head on instinct, allowing me
enough space to finally reach my knife. With no time left for uncertainty, I
grip the hilt and thrust up through the young Dire’s neck, jerking the blade
free before he has the chance to recover. His eyes meet mine, the arrogance
now replaced with pure shock. With crimson liquid gushing from his neck,
spurting from his lips, dribbling down this chin, his form goes slack atop
me. The metallic tang of blood assaults my senses, the liquid choking me,
the sticky substance drenching my chin and neck. His body is all muscle,
heavy and sold, and I struggle to heave him off. After a considerable effort,
I manage to break free, rushing to my sister’s side.
“Peia,” she cries, horror written clearly across her features, her golden
curls plastered to the side of her head.
I bring her face between my palms carefully examining her, scanning her
body for any signs of harm. I panic, fearing he must have done something
awful before realizing I’m the one she’s worried for. My exposed chest and
neck are slick with blood, the sinister liquid soaking the front of my snowy
tunic. I can only imagine how my face must look.
“Don’t worry, I’m fine.” I assure her, forcing her bright sunflower gaze
to meet my stormy grays. “Get your shoes, we’re leaving.”
Iren does as she’s told, jumping up to pull on her boots. I’m in the
middle of stuffing our packs when I hear them, the footsteps just beyond the
door. My senses tell me these steps are not my brothers, the treads too rigid
and firm. Turning towards the door, I shove my sister behind me, bracing
myself for whatever new monsters may arrive.
The two males who enter are young like the first, the ink stains
sprawling across their arms few and far between. Their kopides sit idle, the
blades still sheathed across the center of their backs. The one who enters
first reminds me of my brother, his raven hair and brawny limbs reminiscent
of Kai, but one look at his face assures me that’s where the similarities
cease. Where my brother radiates compassion and humanity, this boy is
pure beast, rabid and brutal. His dark eyes match the hue of his clipped
hair, the skin beneath his tattoos bronzed from the sun. The boy directly
flanking him is taller, golden haired, with a scar carved along the entire
right side of his face. His build suggests he’s just as strong, just as
intimidating as his companion, but the look in his viridescent eyes set him
apart. He’s more controlled, tamed even, but their matching stains can mark
them only as Dire.
Losing myself in the moment, surrendering to my baser instincts to keep
us alive, I address the nearest threat, the young Dire with the hair of night
to match my own. Letting lose my knife with as much force as I can muster,
my aim is off, the blade piercing his leg right at the thigh. It impales down
to the hilt, fresh blood rippling down the leather of his trousers, droplets
splashing to the floor. His curse rattles the rafters, the rage contorting his
features into something inhuman. Without time to rejoice, I set my sights on
the golden Dire.
A look of surprise has replaced his calm demeanor, but I can’t allow him
to recover. Rushing him, I use my knee and momentum to thrust him into the
wall at his back. I tack on a swift jab to the throat, an elbow to the face, and
brace for a counterattack. His returning assault is brutal, his training and
build offering him an obvious advantage, but my blocks hold, taking the
blunt of the attack on my wrists and forearms. I manage to land a kick to his
chest, forcing him to a knee, and return my attention to my first victim.
With my knife still protruding from his thigh, I can practically feel the
anger radiating off him in fiery waves, his hunger for my blood a visceral
being. I ready for my first strike, but the previous blocks have cost me. My
arms are throbbing and I’m not sure how much longer I can last. I throw my
first punch, but my movements are labored, weak. He anticipates the move,
catching my arm easily between both of his. He holds it firm, pushing my
back downward until I can almost feel the ligaments tearing. The pressure
on my shoulder is increasing rapidly, my back pushed so far down I’m
practically parallel to his knees. That’s when I see it, my salvation staring
me straight in the eye.
The hilt of my knife.
My sweaty palm gripped tight, I twist with all I have left.
His howl is deafening, frenzied. For a few precious seconds, I truly
believe I’ll be able to save my sister and fight my way to my brothers, but
my fantasy is short lived. When the pressure on my shoulder finally peaks,
I’m brought stumbling to my knees, searing in agony.
My sister’s tormented wail pierces the night, followed closely by my
own.
-------------------------------------
I jolt awake, my mind reeling from my latest nightmare. The memories
are always rough but this one leaves me panting, gasping for air. It’s the
dead of winter, my breath clouding in front of me and yet, my bare body is
slick with sweat. Relenting, I push out of bed, sleep no longer a possibility.
In a daze, my feet carry me towards the far window overlooking the eastern
mountains below. It’s far too early, the majestic view of the snowcapped
peaks still sheathed in darkness and fog. My thoughts so far and away, I
almost forget the unclothed body sprawled between my sheets.
Alektus.
Alek.
I gaze at his bare back, my eyes immediately drawn to the ink staining
most of his upper body. The sight of his tattoos reminds me of my own.
Impulsively, I raise a hand to the base of my neck where it meets my right
collarbone, the tender spot of my newest addition of ink.
A group of crows in flight, the ink representing the farmer and his kin.
Innocents convicted of treason and sentenced to death simply for trading
with an Omega tribe.
 A murder of crows.
How fitting.
In the beginning, I was certain the marks were meant as a form of
physically torture, but the pain when receiving most of them is so minor it
can’t be described as more than a slight irritant. Some Dire even claim to
crave the sensation, the pain an unyielding addiction. But seeing them now,
etched along Alek’s body, I know their true purpose. They’re the shadows
that never rest, the darkness that never fully leaves us. The ink on our skin
brands us for what we are, for what we’ve done. It’s a permanent reminder
of the lives we have taken, the souls we’ve collected in the name of our
Beta. We’re the killers of Krua, all pledged to The Dire until we reach the
River Styx.
Each tattoo we earn represents a permanent stain upon our souls, my
own so tainted, damaged beyond repair. I bear the most marks of any Dire,
the few vacancies left apart from my face is the exposed area around my
neck. They call me the Ker of Krua, goddess of the violent death.
But I’m no goddess, I’m merely a slave in wolves clothing.
I’m Beta Jakobian’s enforcer. His butcher. His most lethal executioner.
I’m Death incarnate.
The thought leaves me nauseous.
The atmosphere in my room is stifling, the thick fog of shame clogging
up every inch. Unable to stomach it, I make my way over to the wardrobe
opposite the window in search of my warmest training uniform. The sun has
yet to make an appearance, but I need air. The familiar memories from my
nightmare are too raw and they’ve left me bare, vulnerable.
After gathering my dark hair into two long braids, I lace up my boots
over a double layering of socks and jerk on my leather gloves. As I’m about
to head out, I decide a thick wool cap is probably a smart move. I reach for
my metal wrist cuffs but decide against them. They tend to bother me when
I run.
Heading towards the door, I take one final glance at Alek still lost in
sleep. My nightmares no longer wake him, a small mercy in my opinion; I
was sick of those probing glances, the pity seeping from those curious eyes.
Leaving him to his slumber, I soundlessly shut the chamber door behind
me.
We shouldn’t all be woken before the dawn.
The hallway beyond my room is deserted, the space cloaked in silence
save for the howling of the wind outside. The hall is steeped in shadow,
illuminated by a single flame at the end of the corridor. The solitary flicker
guides my path through the darkness, warped shadows dancing along the
walls. Though my vision is sharp, I move swiftly to evade the creatures still
lurking from the night. The echoes of my footsteps reverberate off the cool
stone floor, their cadence my faithful companion. I’m careful to keep my
distance from the jagged rock of the corridor walls. I learned that lesson the
hard way after stumbling down here piss-poor drunk, fumbling around like
an idiot. My hands loathed me the following morning, the miserable things
scrapped raw.
This section of Beta Jakobian’s compound was delved into the mountain
itself, its chambers as cold and frigid as the surrounding woods. The Pit, as
it’s been affectionately titled, is inhabited by me alone. The other rooms
lining the hall are barren except for an assortment of forgotten tools or the
occasional rodent. Jakobian thought it best I take up residence somewhere
other than the barracks after so many “incidents.” Though surely meant as a
punishment, I welcome the isolation.
Reaching the end of the corridor I make quick work scaling the scanty
wooden ladder, the single route in or out of the Pit. Bracing my fingers
against the rough wood of the trapdoor, I’m confident this will be the day
the latch refuses to open, the day Jakobian finally condemns me to a slow
death inside this rocky tomb. With a hard shove, my fears are put to rest as
the wooden door swings open.
The room above is like entering another world, the atmosphere buoyant
and lively. I narrowly escape being trampled by a small herd of bustling
servants, the familiar faces scurrying through the kitchen door to my right.
The doughy scent of fresh bread and greasy links wafting out is so inviting,
I’m tempted to ignore my morning run in favor of more practical activities.
Stuffing my face perhaps.
Knowing how well that’ll go over with Roman, my charming
Commanding Officer, I decide against it. I’m sure the poor bastard is
probably already making his way to the foyer.
No use pissing him off this early in the morning.
Jakobian’s compound is ancient, said to have been forged into the
mountain by Hephaestus himself. They call it the Ruin of Krua. The title’s a
bit ridiculous if you ask me, but I didn’t name it. The compound is vast, the
halls an elaborate labyrinth spanning from below the ground up into the
mountain’s peak. The upper levels are so unlike the Pit it’s hard to believe
they call the same rock home. Above the Pit, the walls are of polished stone,
most adorned with intricate antique tapestries depicting various victories
over the gods. Others bare the weight of centuries old violence, the
weapons displayed boasting of the lives taken, the steel left stained a rusted
crimson. The glossy floors are lined with thick carpeting, warming the
arctic marble underfoot.
Considering the hour, I was sure I’d reach the foyer before Roman but
the broad-shouldered, surly figure stretching at the far wall proves me
wrong. Just the sight of my CO takes me back to my dream, back to the
night we first met.
He’s taller now, towering over me by almost a foot and a half. Not that
it’s rare, considering my 5-foot-2-inch stature. His hair has dimmed, no
longer the same golden shade of the sun. The scar on his face is still
prominent, but not as brutally raw, the skin long since healed, the lower
portion forever concealed by his permanent scruff. Though Roman’s far
from the young man he was four years ago, his eyes have remained the
same. Those mossy irises forever the hue of a nurtured meadow, an
innocent untouched by the dastardly cold. A constant source of unwavering
hope, they’re confirmation of something human buried beneath the beast.
As I approach, I’m greeted by way of “You’re early.” The way his
clipped tone drips with annoyance, you’d think I was an hour late. I stifle
the ever-present urge to roll my eyes.
How Roman ended up as my CO I’ll never understand.
Must’ve drawn the short straw somewhere.
“I just can’t stomach our time apart,” I answer with a wink, biting my
bottom lip to keep from laughing outright. Alek keeps reminding me I have
a bad habit of thinking myself amusing when all my words do is provoke
irritation. I believe his words were along the lines of “galling nuisance.”
That, or something equally flattering.
He warns me this might cost me one day, but I’ve also got a bad habit of
ignoring him.
Roman doesn’t smile, his face physically incapable of making the
expression. Instead, he starts off towards the main entrance throwing a curt
“Let’s go” over his shoulder. My cheeky response is lost to the icy wind as
he throws open the doors, stalking off into the frosty morning.
 CHAPTER 2
Roman and I run this trail every single morning, without fail. Once when I
took a considerably nasty beating, Roman still insisted I run the route,
busted ribs and all.
A few months after I officially started training at the compound,
Roman dragged me out of bed before dawn, insisting I run the mountain
path. He informed me I was too small, too weak, and that no amount of
training could make up for what I was lacking in size.
He’s got a real knack for pep talks.
He argued that the only advantage I’d ever have over my opponents
would be my speed, that it’d be essential for my own survival. After that, I
was instructed to make the trek every morning before breakfast. Two weeks
later I made the mistake of skipping the trails, heading straight to the mess
hall instead. Naturally, the ever-omniscient CO of mine discovered my
deceit. The following morning, I was greeted with my very own chaperone.
We’ve run together ever since.
This morning’s run feels especially brutal, torturous even. The
winter air is biting, lashing out at our exposed flesh as we make our way up
the mountain trail. The morning fog has yet to clear, blanketing the woods
in a murky, damp haze. The icy wind is relentless, scraping at my neck and
face, clawing down my throat, leaving it raw and coated in the familiar
metallic tang.
I run in time to my humming, a steady rhythm of drums that
matches my cadence. My mother taught me the tune the summer I turned
twelve. We were preparing the Citadel for the Moon Festival, the biggest
celebration in Nymphai, when she took me aside to show me the rhythm.
The music was transcendent, the drums beating in tune with my very soul,
and I knew right then I’d never forget it.
My pace is solid, my legs sturdy as they carry me farther upward,
but Roman is close at my heels. Usually I’d quicken my pace, widen the
gap between us, but not today. My focus is off, my mind distracted by my
recent nightmare. It continues to claw at the wall in my mind, the one built
to shield me from those memories, until it’s weak and crumbling. When the
wall finally gives way, my memories come flooding back, swallowing me
whole until I’m all but drowning in them.
 -------------------------------------
The pain at my shoulder is piercing, so excruciating each breath
is an effort. My eyes find my sister. Her skins gone completely pale; her
cheeks stained with tears. I try to rise but my new friend grips me tightly by
the shoulder, shoving me back down.
“Enough of that,” he hisses through gritted teeth, “unless your
other arm is feeling neglected.” At this he actually smiles, an intense
expression that enhances his entire face, as if the thought of shattering my
remaining intact arm brings him pure glee.
“Bastien,” the golden Dire finally speaks, a single word uttered
with such authority even I turn to listen. It’s blatantly obvious which of the
two holds a higher rank. “You’re wasting time, the orders were clear.”
“She killed Ragnus! She deserves worse than a busted shoulder,”
Bastien spits, venom lacing every word.
“They’re to be brought to Jakobian. Alive.”
“Forever the dutiful son you are, Roman,” his voice a mixture of
resentment and thinly veiled envy. “I’ll get the little one. I can’t stand
whimpering bitches.” He shoots these last words in my direction before
throwing me to the floor.
Asshole.
Roman answers with a curt nod.
As Bastien approaches my sister, I finally find the will to speak.
“Stay the hell away from her you piece of shit!” The shrill sound draws
their attention back towards me.
“So, the siren speaks. What a nasty tongue you have. Tell me, how
much does this little one mean to you?” he asks, nodding towards Iren, his
tone dripping with malice. “Maybe I’ll have my way with her. She’s a bit
young for my taste, but exceptions can be made.”
Ignoring my body’s protest, I rise to my feet, gearing up for another
fight. “Lay one filthy hand on her and I’ll rip out your fucking throat.”
“Hmm, I think I’ll take my time with her, savor each moment. If
you’re lucky, I’ll even allow you to watch,” he croons, his is nasty leer so
sinister even Hades himself would turn away.
I lunge for him but before I can take two steps, Roman hooks me by
the waist. Sneering, Bastien seizes my sister by the arm, ushering her out of
the cabin. Thrashing against Roman I try to follow, but his grip is
unyielding.
 “Stop. If you keep this up, you’ll ruin that arm of yours,” he says,
his voice soft against my ear. “He won’t touch your sister. You have my
word.” The sincerity of his words is unnerving, not at all what I would
expect of a Dire.
Impulsively, I attempt to step back, trying to get a better look at my
captor. I expect his hold to remain firm, but he releases me without a
struggle, as if he, too, would like a moment to assess. The green of his eyes
is mellow, so subtle it brings to mind the dim color of the woods as winter
approaches. He’s younger than I first predicted. His face is smooth, only the
faintest hint of stubble has emerged along his jaw. This close I realize his
scar is a thing of nightmares, the jagged mark stretching from temple to jaw
line. It looks fresh.
Catching his eye, I find his expression has changed, no longer the
controlled Dire who first entered my cabin. He seems just as surprised by
the individual standing before him, as if I, too, were not what he was
expecting.
I break the silence by asking the question that has plagued me since
Kai first informed me Beta Jakobian would be coming after us.
“What is it you want?” Seemingly jarred by my question, his
demeanor shifts, his expression returning to its original calm and collected
form. I continue before he’s able to form a response. “You’ve already taken
Nymphai. Killed my parents…” The memory of my mother opens an old
wound, a festering, gaping hole I’m confident will never completely heal.
The pain so searing I practically choke on my last words. “Why even bother
with us?”
Roman responds without hesitation. “Jakobian doesn’t tolerate
loose ends.” His reply is spoken with such solemn finality my eyes began to
pool, tears threatening to spill over.
So, this is how we die.
Executed before the monster who ravaged our home and destroyed
our family. The one who tore apart an entire village looking for his “loose
ends.” The knowledge feeds my grit, filling me with a rage so blistering I
fear it’ll set my skin ablaze. I raise my head high, my stance stiffening.
I refuse to cower in the presence of beasts.
“Let me set this,” he says, gesturing towards my shoulder. I almost
recoil as he places his hands around my wounded limb but think better of it.
I can’t kill Jakobian with a busted arm. “This will be painful.” For a
moment he does nothing before whispering, “Just try to keep your eyes on
mine.”
By this point I’m almost hyperventilating, the pain so excruciating,
but my eyes never leave Roman’s. He positions his hands properly, pausing
momentarily when I wince, waiting for my consent to continue. I nod
slightly. The look he gives me is soft, remorseful even, and I’m uncertain if
he’ll continue until he grips my arm tightly, shoving my shoulder back into
place. I’m unable to stifle my howl as I collapse into him, his arms breaking
my fall.
He sets me upright. “Better?”
“Yes,” I pant. Without another word he takes a cord from his
pocket, tightly binding my hands at the front. Taking my arm firmly, he
marches us outside into the night.
The carnage I bear witness to turns my stomach.
Screams ring out from blazing cabins, the doors locked tightly from
the outside sealing my people into their smoky tombs. Fallen bodies litter
the ground, the pooling crimson glistening in the light of the flames. I
instinctively move towards the screaming, desperate to reach them in time,
but Roman’s hold leads me in the opposite direction, out towards the woods.
I scan my surroundings for any sign of my siblings, but they’re nowhere to
be found. I pray my brothers are safe somewhere off in the distance, but I
know Kai. He would never leave us behind. My last remaining hope is for
their deaths to be quick and painless.
We travel deeper into the woods for what seems like hours but can
only be a few miles. Roman’s pace is hasty, assertive; he knows exactly
where he’s going. We’re heading southbound towards the Stag, the only
road in the entire realm that runs from the Forsaken Lands all the way
through each of the five Pack Territories, including the Alpha’s territory of
Tairheia. My mind is so preoccupied by thoughts of my siblings, I don’t even
register the familiar woods until we’ve nearly reached our destination.
At the northernmost point of the Stag, where the last of the woods
meets the origin of the road, lies a large meadow with an ancient willow
tree at its center. My siblings and I have spent hours in this part of the
woods, playing, laughing, forgetting for a few short moments the horrors of
our past. Eon and I created ‘Willow Weeper’, a game in which we would
both climb the tree until one of us was too scared to go any further. The first
one to retreat, which I hate to admit was usually me, was deemed the
weeper. Kai never wanted to play, said our game was childish, but he
always watched us climb. He never once turned his back, always too afraid
we might fall.
As we draw closer to the meadow, I can make out what must be the
glow of torches illuminating my majestic willow. This can only be the Dire’s
encampment, stationed not five miles from my village. It pains me to witness
a place of such tranquil beauty desecrated by these Kruan savages.
Roman tugs me toward a cluster of figures huddled close together.
When they come into focus, I recognize them as the women from my village.
I scan every face until I finally locate her. There, at the front of the group,
sits Iren nestled tightly into the crook of our tribe leader’s arm. Although
I’m only four years older than my sister, seeing her sitting there enveloped
in Sansinena’s arms, she looks so much younger than eleven. A flood of
relief washes over me, for I know Nena would die before she let my sister
come to any harm. Roman continues in their direction, cutting my bindings
before plopping me down beside them.
“Iren.” My sister shifts at the sound of my voice. Her face is ashen,
her cheeks tear stained, but the relief in her eyes is apparent. She releases
her grip from Nena, crawling over to me. I pull her close, refusing to let
anyone separate us again. Roman starts to leave but turns back as if he’s
forgotten something vital.
“Stay out of trouble,” his words steeped in annoyance. “And try not
to piss anyone off,” he adds before sauntering off towards the other end of
the camp. I keep my eyes trained on his back until he enters a large tent,
vanishing from sight. I scan our surroundings, my eyes automatically taking
in the details of our current situation.
Of the four Dire guarding us, three pay us no mind, the fourth
keeping an exceptionally close eye on me. The camp is trivial, not meant for
long term residency. From what I can gather, there are no more than nine
Dire milling about, not including those inside the tent. The rest must still be
hard at work massacring what remains of our village.
I’m relieved my brothers are nowhere in sight.
“Nena, have you seen Kai or Eon?” The question comes out in
Sykaii, Nena’s native tongue, my voice low to avoid being overheard. I
doubt any of the Kruans know the language, but I still don’t take any
chances, not when it comes to my brothers.
“No, but I overheard them saying they still have men out searching
for them. I’m guessing they weren’t counting on you three to be gallivanting
through the woods in the middle of the night.” Her words are accompanied
by a wink followed by a smile so comforting my resolve finally waivers,
bringing me to tears. “Now none of that, Talanichi,” she chides. “This will
not be the night that breaks you.”
Talanichi.
The Pathfinder.
The title Nena gave me when we first reached her tribe. She told me
the legends of the Pathfinder, the lone wolf who travels great distances
searching for new lands but always manages to find its way back home.
Though I never understood her reasoning behind the name, I’d treasured it
just the same. It made me feel special, unique, but most of all, loved.
I do as she tells me, wiping the tears from my face. My eyes roam
over every inch of her, taking in every detail, committing it to memory. The
thought that the brave, selfless woman seated across from me, the one who
welcomed four orphans of Nymphai without a second thought, would
undoubtedly be dead before the night is up, is almost too much to bear. The
guilt is like an illness, a feeling so nauseating I shift Iren from my side and
keel over, heaving until there’s nothing left, my stomach emptied of its
contents.
“I’m sorry,” I croak, “You deserved better. You all did. We never
should have come here Nena. We should have died that night in Nymphai.”
“Hypatia, my beautiful girl.” Her touch warm and soothing as she
takes my face in her hands. “I have made many mistakes over the years but
taking in the likes of you four is not among them.”
Before I’m able to thank her for her kind words, I’m roughly ranked
to my feet. A hand flies to my throat while the other remains firmly on my
arm. My tender shoulder protests at the contact but I scarcely register the
pain as I try to break free of the Dire’s grasp. His hold leaves me nearly
suspended in midair, the tips of my boots lightly scraping the dirt below me.
I claw at the fingers pressed against my neck, but they never slacken. I gasp
for breath, his grip so constricting I’m teetering on the abyss of
consciousness.
With only seconds left before I succumb completely, I glare up at my
captor, studying each feature. My eyes roam from his dark eyes down to his
blood splattered jaw. When he notices my inspection, a heinous smile plays
across his lips, a sight so horrendously familiar I fear Bastien has returned
to finish what he started. A quick glance at his bare arms tells me I’m
mistaken. This is a new Dire, one who has yet to take his first life.
I refuse to be the first mark that taints his skin.
Determined to survive the next few minutes, I raise my free elbow
as high as I’m able and use what remains of my strength to slam it down
against his outstretched arm. The blow takes him by surprise and my feet
firmly hitting the ground, his grip failing long enough to allow me my next
move. Taking his hand between my own, I break his wrist in one swift
motion. The sound as it snaps out of place brings such an indiscernible
amount of pleasure, I give him a monstrous smile of my own. My glee is
short-lived as I ready myself for his counterattack, but he doesn’t move.
Instead, he stands motionless, smirking as if the whole situation amuses
him.
“Now I understand what Roman was fussing about,” he says, his
eyes wandering over my figure, lingering on my blood-soaked chest.
“You’re quite the vaiksuna for one so tiny.”
Vaiksuna.
Heart-eater.
The nasty servants of the underworld. He assumes I don’t know the
word, but he’s mistaken. My father always made it a point of having his
children learn the different languages and dialects of the separate Pack
territories, along with those of the Omega tribes. He felt it imperative we be
able to speak the native tongues when in foreign regions as a sign of
respect. He never followed Pack Law, which restricted travel into the
Forsaken Lands, save for during times of battle. My father always believed
there was much the Omega and Pack territories could gain through trade,
so he frequently traveled North, bringing Kai and I along with him. On
occasion, he would even allow Omega traders into Nymphai.
That’s how I first became acquainted with Nena.
The Dire’s word choice, along with his accent and the trilling of his
k’s, indicates he’s not a native of Krua. He’s from the southern territory of
Ressyx. Of the five Pack Territories, Ressyx is by far the most unstable, with
many of its residents confined to slums. This boy undoubtedly jumped at the
opportunity to join Jakobian’s ranks in Krua.
“Jakobian wants a word,” he says reaching for my arm. I take one
last glance at my sister, giving her my most reassuring smile.
“Nena, don’t let her watch.” I won’t have my sister bear witness my
execution. Nena answers with a curt nod, her expression hard as steel.
“Don’t worry, the little one has a meeting of her own.” Any
response is silenced as he pulls me towards the far tent Roman disappeared
into.
As I’m dragged forward, the other soldiers stop and stare as we
pass. Although women are allowed in the Dire, I see none at present. Most
sneer, others smile knowingly, suggestively. The danger of the situation is
not lost on me, but I can’t find it in me to cower. I keep my head held high,
meeting every pair of eyes that glance my way. I’m a daughter of Nymphai,
capture does nothing to change that. I will face my death in the same
manner as my mother-
With defiance.
Untamed.
Making our way further through the camp, my eyes drop to my
boots, the once slick blood now dried and caking. My clothing is just as
gruesome, macabre at its finest. The sight should leave me uneasy, but it
doesn’t, instead offering a sense of comfort. Proof that even these brutes
can bleed.
When we reach the end of the camp, he pulls me to a halt at the
front of the tent. The entrance is adorned with a familiar emblem. An elk
ensnared in the fangs of a wolf. The sigil of Krua.
We’ve reached the den of the monster wolf himself.
I expect us to enter but instead, we veer off towards the clearing at
the rear of the tent. The sun is just beginning to rise, illuminating the
figures lurking among the florae.
“Jakobian,” the boy at my side clips as we draw near.
Growing up in Nymphai, it was widely known that of the five
overlords of Lyca, Beta Marxus Jakobian was by far the most vicious,
sadistic of them all. It was said even the Alpha of Lyca, Jakobian’s elder
brother, cowers in his presence. Seeing the figure now, I don’t doubt a single
of these claims.
As the Beta saunters over, my eyes focus on the familiar face
following at his heels.
Roman.
Those olive eyes find mine, his face grim and unreadable. Scanning
back to Jakobian, I get my first good look at the monster wolf. The man
gazing back at me is tall, lean, but built entirely of raw muscle. His chest is
bare, the sweat of his face glistening, streaming down over his chiseled
form. His brown hair is clipped short, flecked with gray. He’s unshaven, the
even stubble masking some of the predator lurking beneath. The gray blue
of his eyes is subtle, his single reassuring feature. He gives me an
appraising look and when his eyes finally settle on mine, he offers me a
captivating smile. The look is alluring and leaves me with an unsettling
realization. Brutal as he may be, this man is appealing, charming even,
which makes him decidedly more dangerous.
“So, this is the one, Roman?” he asks, the first words I’ve heard
him speak.
“Yes.” Roman’s eyes never abandoned mine.
“Seems odd such a tiny creature could create such chaos.” I don’t
miss the amusement lacing his words. His gaze is upraising, a slow perusal
of one of his “loose ends.”
“She’s fast, agile, and stronger than she looks.” A small commotion
alerts us to a new group of soldiers approaching, all marked as Dire, led by
yet another familiar face. The memory of my knife in his thigh and his
distinctly unsoldierly-like shriek filling the air has my lips twitching.
“Something funny?” he demands, noticing my amused expression
which I quickly shed. “Didn’t think so. How’s the shoulder?” he asks,
nodding towards my busted arm, the haughty arrogance slowly returning.
“Better than the leg, I’m sure.” The men surrounding him snicker.
Jakobian himself actually barks out in laughter. I know I shouldn’t be
goading him, but my anger gets the better of me. The slight narrowing of his
eyes confirms my comment struck a nerve. Though my shoulder might be
throbbing, the pain is hidden, no visible sign of my weakness. His wounded
leg is wrapped tightly, the bandage stained a rich scarlet. There is no
shielding it from view.
He’s injured, and it was my doing.
He takes a solitary step forward, but I don’t flinch. From the corner
of my eye, I can sense Roman has shifted as well. Bastien’s next move is cut
short when a single order from his Beta puts him in his place.
“Bastien, that’s enough. You can continue this little pissing contest
of yours later.” Jakobian’s attention shifting towards me. “I’m curious how
one of your stature was able to assault two of my best. My son seems to
think you’d be a valuable asset for Krua, but I remain unconvinced.” He
gestures to one of his men. The soldier tosses a blade at my feet.
 My son.
Roman, son to the Beta of Krua. I quickly scan both men. I
should’ve known. The resemblance is subtle but unmistakable, with their
chiseled jaw and harsh features, their eyes the only anomaly. The elder man
a clear divination of what’s to come, a foreshadowing of the young Dire’s
fate.
“Roman,” Jakobian continues, his tone light, almost calculating,
“you’re the one who seems to find her so remarkable. Let us see it then.
Hopefully, you’ll fare better than Bastien.” His radiant smile is genuine,
obviously pleased by the night’s turn of events.
I turn to Roman, keeping my feet planted, making no movement
towards the blade. Nodding, he gestures toward the ground at my feet. Pick
it up, he seems to urge but I remain motionless. They want me to fight, to
prove my worth for their amusement.
Fuck them.
“What’s going to happen to my sister?” Ignoring Roman, I address
the Beta. Jakobian’s grin falters slightly, his brows creasing just a fraction.
Moments pass and I fear he’s simply going to ignore me until he
finally responds. Tone bitter as a winter frost, he says, “Once we finish
here, I’ll have my men dispose of her the same way they did your brothers.”
My eyes pool automatically, breathing becoming harder. It can’t be
true.
“You’re lying.” The words come out choked, broken. “You’d never
be able to catch Kai.” Even as I say it, I can feel my palms pooling, the
moisture slowly bumbling towards the surface of my skin.
“That might’ve been true had they fled deeper into the woods.” The
calm of his words is telling, the realization crushing me as my worst fear is
confirmed. I knew in my bones my brothers would never run, never abandon
us.
The pain in my chest almost brings me to my knees. I’m drowning,
all the air sucked from my lungs as they fill, the weight dragging me deeper
into the watery depths. Before I can stop them, my eyes are spilling over, my
pain turning my vision murky, a distorted blur.
My beautiful brothers are gone, ripped from a world that never
deserved them by the barbarians standing before me. These are not men.
They’re savages who deserve nothing more than a violent death.
And I vow to give it to them.
 My grief abandons me, making way for pure, unrelenting rage.
reach for the blade, the movement predatory in nature. More beast than
human. My shoulder rebels. I ignore it. I’m not delusional. I know death is
eagerly awaiting my arrival, but I refuse to go without taking at least one of
them with me.
My first swing is low, at the ankle, meant to disarm him. I’m quick
but he’s faster, swiftly deflecting the blow. His counter is a jab to the chest.
My blade is ready, waiting to deflect his swing, but the power behind the
sword is astounding. My shoulder is hindering my strength, diminishing my
ability to block. I can tell I won’t last much longer. When I’m forced once
again to raise my arm for a block, the clashing of blades rings just as
loudly as before, but the force behind the impact has faded.
Though the action goes unnoticed by our audience, I know Roman
is holding back, reigning in his strength. He’s constantly moving, shifting so
my back is always towards our Kruan audience. This can only be for my
benefit, shielding what must be an abysmal technique considering my
shoulder. The idea is ludicrous, yet I don’t question its validity. The predator
across is helping me. I don’t understand it, nor do I care to.
Screw him and his mercy.
I lash out wildly, aiming for his neck. The block is flawless, but I
use the opportunity to land a kick to his exposed chest. As he staggers back,
I ready my final blow. My move is solid, but he ducks just below my swing,
scraping his sword along my arm in the process. My grip weakens, blood
spurting from the fresh wound. Ignoring the pain, I fight on.
Roman isn’t expecting me to recover so quickly and I use this to my
advantage, quickly thrusting my blade through his abdomen. For a few
precious seconds, I genuinely believe I’ve beaten him, killed another Dire of
Krua, but as I manage to get a better look of the wound, I realize I’m
mistaken. My blow was weak, the blade piercing less an inch or so into his
flesh.
I realize I’m done for. I can almost feel Death readying at my back,
anxiously waiting to welcome me into his open arms. And truth be told, I’m
ready, excited even, for the embrace.
I close my eyes imagining my brothers calling to me, beckoning me
home.
“Roman, I’ve seen enough.” It’s Jakobian’s voice that rips me away
from my brothers, hauling me back to the land of the living. “Bring them
both,” he commands, signaling one of the Dire’s flanking Bastien. Roman
moves to my side, his fingers gently raising my arm to survey the injury.
Repulsed, I rip my arm free, revolted by the light touch of his fingers. I’m
about to lash out, when I notice her, an unnamed soldier tugging her
towards us.
Iren.
In all my eagerness to embrace Death, I forgot the soul I’d be
leaving behind. My sister looks disheveled, haggard, but she’s still among
the living.
I can’t just forsake her.
“Come along Roman, we’ve much to discuss,” Jakobian calls over
his shoulder, strolling off towards his tent. Roman forces me along, pushing
me farther away from my sister. I begin a futile attempt at escape until we
enter the dwelling, Iren no longer in sight. “Your sister’s fine for the time
being. Irritate me and that can quickly change,” the Beta clips with
annoyance. “Her presence causes too much of a distraction.”
“You sick bastard! What is it you want?” Roman releases his hold.
“I needed to assess your capabilities in a fight firsthand, catch a
glimpse of the fighter Roman claims you to be. Since you displayed no
inclination to show me, I thought I’d provide some motivation.
Condolences about your brothers by the way,” he adds, eyes glistening with
delight. “I always knew the Beta of Nymphai was notorious for his training
regime, I just had no idea his daughter was also forced to take part.”
My silence confirmation enough. Though my mother first opposed,
my father demanded I start training with him as soon as I turned six. He
always said I needed to be able to defend my life with my own hands. His
teachings were harsh, his training brutal, but I admired him for it. It was a
gift. I relished the power my skills granted me.
“Roman was right. You may just prove useful as a Dire.”
Dire.
Me, a Dire of Krua. Killing for the man who stole everything from
me.
Fuck that.
“I won’t fight for you.”
Ever assessing, he lets a beat pass before countering, “I disagree,”
that charming grin dancing across his lips. “I have a proposition for you,
one I’m certain you’ll be inclined to accept.” I’m stunned, a feeling of
dread, and what treacherously feels like hope, quickly taking root. “The
plan was always simple. Overthrow Beta Madaeus and his Second, then
execute his remaining heirs in a public display of power to remind the
people of Lyca that Pack Law is final. That high treason will not be
tolerated.” The Beta pauses momentarily, his eyes masking an emotion I
can’t quite identify. “Since you and your sister are all that remains of the
Madaeus line, the only question remains- what shall I do with you?” His
words not quite matching his nonchalance, it takes a moment before they
full register.
Once they finally do, I find myself battling to keep any remaining
bile from rising.
Beta Madaeus and his Second.
My father and mother dead. Reduced to nothing more than words.
My brothers gone, discarded to rot and decay by the man standing in front
of me.
He doesn’t miss a beat, continuing on as if he’s finishing up a
rudimentary tale. “Now that I’ve seen your aptitude for violence, I’m
inclined to agree with my son. You’re far more valuable to me alive,” he
adds, eyes blazing. “In exchange for your life and that of your sister’s, you
will serve me faithfully as one of my own. As one of my Dire.”
That treacherous seed of hope begins to blossom, quickly spreading
like venom.
“What of Iren? She’s not a warrior. She’s never even handled a
weapon.” A malicious lie. Just at a glance, one would never realize that my
sister is a much more formidable opponent than looks would suggest,
though that’s not knowledge I want made public. I won’t allow her to kill on
behalf of this man.
“Your sister serves another purpose.” The gleam in his eyes is
unsettling as he continues, slowing striding my direction. “It seems you’re
much livelier when she’s around. All fire, a bit unhinged if I’m being honest,
but I find I rather enjoy it. I’ll find a place for her in my territory, treat her
as I would any other daughter of Krua. None apart from the Alpha will ever
know of her survival,” he almost purrs. His steps have brought him to my
corner of the tent, the two of us now standing toe to toe.
Could I accept his offer? Fight for the man who desecrated my
entire world?
Thoughts of my sister decide for me.
 “How do I know she’ll be safe?” I ask the only question that
matters.
“I’m nothing if not a man of my word, Hypatia.” My true name on
his tongue, slithering towards me, makes my skin crawl. “Serve me well and
rest assured, no harm will come to your sister. But fail me in anyway, and
you both will suffer a fate far worse than death. I am not a forgiving man.
Do not test me.” I close my eyes, delaying the inevitable. “No use praying
to the gods. Only one remains and you’re speaking with him.”
“They are no gods,” I rebut. “Only man and beasts.” And with
that, I accept my fate. “I wish to see them.”
Kai.
Eon.
“I’d advise against it. It’s not a comforting sight,” his voice layered
with that omniscient amusement. Gloating or taunting, I can’t be sure, but
his warning is genuine, little difference that it makes. I need to see them.
When it becomes clear I won’t back down, he finally relents. “Fine, Roman
can take you. Now, do we have an agreement? Will you serve as one of my
Dire?” His tone is greedy, eager. Any fire that had fueled me is gone,
snuffed out by the realization of what looms in my future. I don’t speak, a
single nod acknowledging my agreement.
“No. I want to hear you say it,” he urges, voice bordering on feral.
His hand snakes out, ensnaring my arm in its grasp.
I should refuse. Should throw his offer back in his face and greet
death as a welcomed friend. But I’m weak, selfish. Too afraid to die. Too
afraid of losing my sister. So instead, I make a deal with a monster, and I
give him my soul.
“Yes, I’ll serve you.”

CHAPTER 3
The mountain trail is glum, the ground moist and treacherous. The memory
of Kai’s mangled corpse is fresh in my mind as I round an oncoming curve
in the path. My feet glide over the slick mud, threatening to send me
tumbling, but I steady myself before any real damage can be done. Bending
down to wipe the mud from my hands, I find myself keeling over instead.
My heave is dry, my stomach empty of any sustenance, but the action still
grueling. It takes me a moment to regain my composure, my breath coming
out in throaty gasps. It’s the sound of Roman’s approaching footsteps that
spurs me forward.
By the time I reach the mountain’s summit, my mind is clear, my
memories tucked safely away into the farthest recess of my mind. My
breathing has steadied, the run having cleared away any plaguing terrors.
I can’t dwell on the past any longer.
Bracing my toes at the mountain’s ledge, I take in the view of the
gorge below. The sun has finally risen, the fog cleared away, allowing for a
glorious morning. The air remains crisp, revitalizing. The conditions no
longer unbearable. The silence surrounding me is a gift, a comforting
escape from the ratcheting noise of the Ruin. I’ve all but lost myself to the
serenity of the woods when my nearly forgotten companion finally reaches
the summit.
“What happened back there?” he asks calmly, the run almost as
effortless for him.
“Slipped in some mud.” I’m careful to keep my tone even. His
brows raise a fraction. It wasn’t my slip he was referring to. “Thought I
swallowed a bug, tried to clear it out.”
“Right.” He doesn’t push. Roman knows me well, knows I’d rather
keep my suffering to myself. I’m so grateful I feel my lips pulling, until he
adds, “Don’t let it happen again. In a fight, a hesitation like that will cost
you.”
And with that the moments over, my ghost of a smile slipping
away.
“Let’s had back,” I call, turning away from the view. I start down
the path before I do something reckless. Like push him right of the ledge.
I keep my pace steady, not letting up until the Ruin’s within sight. I
remain a few strides in front of Roman the entirety of our run. By the time
we return, the compound is bustling. Energetic and lively, with Dires and
lower ranking soldiers alike attending to their morning duties.
“You’re getting slower,” Roman barks once when we’ve breached
the outer limits of the courtyard.
“I beat you.”
“Not by much.” I steel myself for a command to run the path again.
It’s happened only once prior, the very first time I ran the trail.
I came into the mess hall a couple minutes late and he immediately
sent me back out into the cold. I know he remembers as well, the tiniest
flicker of amusement pulling at the corner of his mouth. A twitch he
desperately tries to contain. The expression looks foreign and out of place,
his smiles never truly reaching his eyes. Even when he’s out at the tavern
laughing with his friends, the gesture always seems forced, like it physically
pains him to stretch his lips wide and grin.
“Get to the mess hall. I’ll see you at the Loft.” With that he stalks
off towards the Ruin entrance.
I follow at Roman’s heels, eager to breach the warm walls of the
compound. Once inside, he continues towards the main staircase leading up
to his father’s office. I veer off down the first hallway to the right, leading
toward my sanctuary of sorts. The mess hall.
Making my way deeper inside, the Ruin’s halls are buzzing with
excitement. Soldiers and Dire readying themselves for the upcoming
journey. Servants hard at work in preparation for the approaching festival.
The Trek of Lycaon.
Based on my father’s old texts, history states that centuries prior,
when the gods no longer answered to the prayers of their worshippers, the
people of the realm found a new idol for their devotion. Lycaon. The
savage king who challenged the mighty Zeus by serving him the meat from
his very own son to test the god’s divinity. The god in turn, having learned
of Lycaon’s treachery, transformed him and his descendants into wolves.
The people thought Lycaon a god for his boldness, adopting their beliefs to
fit his image. The early rulers of the realm decided to embrace the spirit of
the wolf, imbedding its legends into their culture. They renamed their
dominion in honor of their wolf god. Lyca, it was titled. The empire then
divided up into five Pack territories, four ruled by Betas, the fifth reigned
over by the Alpha of the Realm. The land remaining on the northern
outskirts of Lyca, the Forsaken Lands, was left to be governed by the
different Omega tribes, those who don’t recognize the Pack order as true
law.
Why the ancient people chose to worship the fool who challenged
Zeus has always been a mystery to me, but every ten years they celebrate
his name with The Trek of Lycaon, a two-week long festival held in the
Alpha territory of Tairheia.
The festival begins with the Feast, a celebration of food and drink
marking the commencement of the Trek. It’s followed by the Wolf Run, a
hunting outing for the five high rulers of Lyca. Once they return the Wild
Masque is held, a night of dance and debauchery where each partaker dons
a mask to honor the wolves of the wild. The festival then culminates with
the Clash of Fangs, a battle meant to demonstrate the strength of the Pack.
Each Beta, along with their Alpha, nominates a combatant to fight on their
behalf and a match ensues to determine the strongest territory in the realm.
The fight isn’t supposed to end in death, but there’s little interference
should the combatants get carried away.
I’ve never been to the Trek, my father deemed me too young the
last time it was held, but this year my attendance is mandatory. My presence
nonnegotiable. When Jakobian first announced that I was coming along to
Tairheia for the Trek, I begged for him to let me stay. I couldn’t bear the
thought of being away from Iren for so long. With the week-long journey
there and the festival itself, I would be away from Krua for at least a month.
I tried negotiating with him, convincing him my presence would be more of
a nuisance than anything else, but he wouldn’t budge. I guess the idea of
showing off his new Ker was just too exciting to pass up.
Since we won’t be leaving for the Trek for another two days, I still
have tomorrow night to look forward to. At the end of each week, Jakobian
arranges an evening for Iren and me to do as we please. In the beginning,
we were only allotted an hour each week, but he’s gotten far laxer over the
years. One evening we lost track of time and almost spent the entire night
together. It’s the only time we have where we aren’t constantly reminded of
who we’ve become over the years, the only time we have left when we’re
free to be even a shadow of the selves we once were. It’s these evenings I
treasure above all others. The only moments I can truthfully admit bring me
joy.
The anticipation of spending time with my sister leaves me giddy
as I reach the mess hall. I discard my jacket and knit hat, hanging them near
the doorway, the room far too warm. My twin khopesh blades hanging idly
on the neighboring hook are evidence of Alek’s arrival. It doesn’t take long
to spot him sitting at our usual table. Skirting around a few hungry ogres, I
make it across the room, plopping down on the bench opposite him.
“Someone’s getting slower,” he says between mouthfuls, gingerly
sliding across a plate spilling over with my favorite breakfast meat. The
savory links greasy and almost burnt to a crisp.
“Gods, you sound like Roman,” I reply, reaching for the link
nearest me. My fork barely skims the greasy pork when he yanks the plate
out of reach. It’s clear I’ve annoyed him. I try, I really do, but I can’t reign
in my laughter. We both know being compared to Roman is the farthest
thing from a compliment. “Alek c’mon, I’m hungry.” Making no inclination
of relenting, I lunge for the plate, nearly spilling an entire pitcher of water
in the process.
“I saved you all the spicy ones,” he laughs, surrendering the
platter.
“Damn this thing is heavy. What’d you do, rob the butcher?” The
plate lands with a heavy thug.
“Didn’t have time,” he mutters, smiling wickedly, suggestively.
“Besides, who needs thievery when I can get by on looks alone.” Winking,
he gestures towards the kitchen entrance. At first, I’m confused, not fully
grasping his meaning, until I notice the slender young servant leaning by
the doorway. Noticing my stare, she quickly retreats into the kitchen.
“She looks new. What’s her name?” I ask, reaching for the crescent
shaped rolls dotted with herbs, the pieces still warm.
“Denli, Djali, something like that.”
I scoff. “You don’t even remember her name?”
“I only met her this morning. I haven’t had the time to make a
proper introduction, if you know what I mean.” Alek’s nothing if not
subtle.
“You better remember it. Ask around,” I urge around a mouthful, “I
don’t want you screwing this up.” Spicy links are a rare commodity in the
Ruin, usually gone by the time I make my way here.
“Noted. Can’t have you going hungry now, can we?” The
combination of food and my lovely cackle results in a throaty, revolting
sound that has me choking up my breakfast. Leaning across the table, Alek
mockingly offers a pat on the back. “No need to get all worked up Pei, I’ll
make sure you get your extra links.”
I respond with my chewed-up crust, the bread striking him square
in the nose. The ease with which Alek can coax a smile never fails to
amaze.
As I finish my breakfast, I find myself staring at the Dire across
from me. My eyes are given unguarded access to his muscular arms, stained
black and exposed for the world to see. I don’t try to hide my appraisal. I
know Alek doesn’t mind. He enjoys the attention.
Although some find Alek’s arrogance grating, I find it reassuring,
like a breath of fresh air in this stifling mountain prison. He’s one of the few
people I can bear to stand the sight of in this godforsaken place. Though,
that wasn’t always the case.
My relationship with Alek used to consist of less smiles and more
blows to the face.
-------------------------------------
After agreeing to join Jakobian’s ranks, it still took a couple of
months before I was allowed to train in the Ruin, plenty of time for word to
spread about the Beta’s new pet. Needless to say, my arrival was met with
as much enthusiasm as a plague. Many of the Dire weren’t too keen on the
idea of a fallen Beta’s daughter joining their ranks, Alek chief among them.
He got the brilliant idea to provoke the new wolf.
Little did he know, the new wolf bites back.
Unsurprisingly, our introduction went about as well as my first
encounter with Bastien, but with less bloodshed. Though neither of us ended
up stabbed, we both walked away with a few broken ribs. After that, Alek
used any excuse to pick a fight. Our altercations became so violent we were
no longer allowed to spar during training to ensure we wouldn’t tear each
other to shreds. It wasn’t until about a month after my arrival that his
hostility eventually waivered, making way for civilized indifference. My
guess, he finally realized I wasn’t a threat, that I would never lead armies or
hold any rank of importance. My only purpose was spilling blood in the
name of my new Beta.
A different type of Kruan slave.
Afterward, Roman made it a point of always pairing the two of us
together during training. Initially, I assumed Roman was trying to kill me or
in the very least maim me. As time went on, I realized his true intentions.
His goal was to make me the best Dire by pairing me against the best.
And it worked.
Soon I could hold my own against Alek, eventually disarming him
completely without taking to many damaging blows. The first day I beat him
in training I expected anger or embarrassment, but he’s known for his
surprises. Wordlessly retrieving his sword, he asked to go another round.
That evening when I received a knock at my door, I had no idea my life at
the Ruin was about to change.
Since no one dared enter the Pit, I opened the door expecting
Roman with a request for a midnight run or late-night weapons training.
Instead, I found Alek lazily leaning against my doorframe, bare chested
with a look I recognized from his time spent with the tavern girls, a look
suggesting mischief and pleasure.
I actually laughed, a stomach splitting rumble with a few snorts
thrown in, the sounds echoing off the barren corridor walls. It was a sound
so untroubled, I almost didn’t recognize it as my own. His face shifted to a
look of utter bemusement, caught off guard by my reaction. It wasn’t that
Alek was unattractive by any means, with his midnight hair and eyes to
match, but seeing him outside my chamber door, his intent so blatantly
obvious.
“Drunk again, are you? Or just lost?” I ask.
Grinning like a thief, he says, “Someone’s hostile this evening.
Guess you don’t get too many visitors in the Pit. Not that I blame them, it is
rather depressing down here.”
“Actually, my consort just left. I’m surprised you didn’t pass him on
your way down.” Alek’s laughter is boisterous and carefree, a sound I’ve
never heard from this particular Dire. Grinning up at him, I lose myself a
little in the easy banter.
“Can I come in? Though I should warn you, I don’t intend for a
quick visit,” he purrs, his voice teasing, his meaning clear.
I’d never laid with a man, hadn’t given it much thought since
leaving Nymphai, but the offer was enticing. Mating between Dire is strictly
forbidden, punishable by lashing, but the thought of breaking one of
Jakobian’s rules, of a small act of rebellion against the one who enslaved
me, was too tempting to pass up.
Shorn of hesitation, I stepped aside, allowing him in.
Alek wasn’t joking, he stayed well into the night.
When the faint glow of the dawning sun finally woke me the
following morning, he was still there, sprawled across my bed as if it were
his own. Seeing no need to wake him, I left him to his slumber as I went to
meet Roman. I didn’t see him in the mess hall during breakfast and when
Roman paired us off during drills, Alek didn’t give any indication that the
previous night ever occurred. And I found myself relieved. I could go about
my training without any unnecessary distractions. It wasn’t until lunch that
Alek decided to broach the subject.
Sitting with Absinthe at my usual spot in the mess hall, the corner
table nearest the kitchen doors, Alek came over. I used to be its sole
occupant until Absinthe came to join me one afternoon. I thought she was
aiming for a fight but as it turns out, she just enjoys the quiet my
disconnectedness brings. After that, we always sat together in comfortable
silence. Nobody was ever foolish enough to join us until that morning, when
Alek thought it wise to astonish everyone and take the seat to my right.
I was too preoccupied with the defensive tactical volume Roman
had given me that I didn’t catch a clear look at the figure next to me. Since
it was so bulky, I assumed it must be Bastien probing for a fight. Without
thinking I grabbed my fork, aiming for his face. He caught my arm
midflight, the momentum almost knocking him off the bench.
“Do you greet all your consorts so warmly or is this reserved for
the best?” he asks. Turning, half expecting his wrath, I find his cheeks
dimpling, eyes crinkling at the corners.
“I thought you were Bastien,” I reply, shrugging my arm free,
turning back to my reading. “What do you want, Alektus?”
“Alek-Tus?” The word is broken down into two. Leaning closer he
whispers, “That wasn’t what you were calling me last night.” The warmth
of his breath tickles my neck, coaxing a much-begrudged grin.
“Oh Alek…” I moan, throwing my head back, “Alek. Alek. Is that
better?” I turn to find his face inches from my own.
“Much.” His grin could shred undergarments. That looked spurred
a familiar feeling in the pit of my stomach, a seedling slowly making its
presence known for the season.
“Really, what do you want Alek?”
“I was only coming to check on you, thought you might’ve lost your
mind or something.” He must read my confusion. “Most girls are begging
for another go-around before noon,” he adds with a wink.
“I’d hate to bruise your ego Alek, but you’re just not as good as
you think.” I give him a wink of my own.
“Ouch,” he says gripping his chest, “you wound me. I’ve never met
a woman who wasn’t willing to sell their soul for another night with me.”
 “We do live in a world of firsts.” Turning back to the pages, I
notice Absinthe has taken a keen interest in our exchange as have most of
the other soldiers in the room.
“Guess so, but I think I can get you to reconsider. Can I come by
tonight?”
Without abandoning my reading, I answer, “Sure.” Curt,
disinterested. Standing to leave, he crouches a final time, his face a breath
from mine. The smile he gives me then rivals even that of Eros.
That night, I found myself anticipating Alek’s arrival, craving any
sort of distraction from the day’s events. That afternoon I was summoned
shortly after lunch, my skills required for a traitorous official Jakobian
needed butchered. General Saxus Uralias. After completing my task, I went
straight to the shamazine to get my next mark inked into my skin. A single
blade shattered near the hilt, carved into my left shoulder, identical to the
one Uralias owned not hours before.
In my chamber, I was so entranced cleaning my khopesh, the blade
specked with the crimson evidence of my evening activities, I almost missed
the knock at my door. The night is old when he finally reaches my room, the
moon crowning the night sky in a glorious glow muffled slightly by the ever-
present clouds. I open the door without thought, my body moving through
the motions. My mind far off in a trance.
“I wasn’t sure if you still wanted me to come,” he says by way of
greeting. “I thought I’d give you some time.” I head back to my task,
allowing him room to enter.
The General’s execution was held in the Ruin courtyard, a public
demonstration of Krua’s brutality. Alek was present. I picked him out in the
crowd. For executions, Dire attendance is mandatory and brutally enforced.
Not that many of them mind. Most are dying to see someone lose their head
or end up with a ruby smile.
I finish my task, walking my blade over to the corner where its mate
sits idle, the pair patiently waiting for another soul to steal. Moving slowly,
I allow myself time to form a response, but the words never appear. My
minds too numb, too exhausted. Instead, I remove my blood-splattered
tunic, letting it tumble to the floor.
“I don’t want time,” I tell him, my response candid, “I just want to
forget.” Moving forward, I kick my top behind me. “Come now Alektus.
Show me why every girl in Krua comes alive at the sound of your name
alone,” I purr.
I try to keep my words light, my tone sensual, but fail. Miserably. I
sound about as seductive as an old hag, but Alek doesn’t seem to notice,
choosing to bypass my appalling attempt at flirting to give me what I
want.
He doesn’t move right away, his eyes slowly wandering over every
inked mark on my chest. I don’t shy away or cower. I’m not embarrassed or
ashamed of my marks, not with Alek. He’s a fellow monster with a soul just
as ruined as my own.
Although this isn’t the first time he’s seen me unclothed, the
intensity of his gaze suggests otherwise. Stepping closer, his hand lifts to my
head, his fingers gently digging into my hair, tilting, as his lips brush the
base of my neck. The connection is brief, a mere flicker. And even so, I
realize I’d been craving this moment, craving any sort of connection free of
blood and death.
My body is his to command, my neck falling back, exposing more
skin to his teasing lips. With one hand remaining firmly at my neck, the
other settles on my chest, his thumb lightly stroking the apex of my breast. I
shudder under his slow, agonizing touch. I try to steer us towards the bed,
but he stops me short.
“Not yet,” he whispers before bringing his lips to mine. The kiss is
searing, rousing a foreign hunger inside me I never knew existed.
“Why?” I whine against his lips. Alek’s responding laughter
vibrates throughout the caverns of my body.
“Patience,” he answers before falling to his knees. The sight of
Alek kneeling takes me by surprise, a laugh spilling from my lips. The
feeling is calming, soothing, easing the weight of the day from my
shoulders.
“What the hell is this?” Nervous laughter echoes throughout the
small chamber.
“Helping you forget,” he murmurs. Hooking his thumbs inside my
waistband, he slides down my pants, along with my undergarments, in one
fluid motion. Signaling for me to step out of them, he roguishly tosses them
aside. My response is lost when his lips meet my thigh, the words soon
forgotten, replaced with a stunned huff. His kisses continue to rise, trailing
a path upward, culminating with his face buried between my legs.
Presenting a light kiss to me core, I fear he’s finished until his tongue makes
its grand entrance, sending tremors along the length of my spine. My flesh
tingling, warming.
My moan kindles him, his movements rigid with purpose.
Momentarily pausing to carry me to bed, I berate him to continue.
Setting me down carefully, his tongue continues its sensual dance. My
words guide him but his tongue leads. Soon, I’m lost in the middle without
ever realizing it had begun. Chasing an ending, a climax. A culmination of
this moment.
The buildup is unimaginable, the release beyond words. I come
alive for him, my entire being shuddering at the sensation. His name on my
lips is a plea for more, an expression of gratitude, proclaimed in a moment
of pure ecstasy.

CHAPTER 4
After that, Alek and I spent most nights together. During those early
months, I desired an escape, and he was my deliverance, my liberation,
each time slowly dragging me into oblivion.
Sitting across from him now, the memory seeps warmth into the
already balmy dining hall.
“Something you care to share Peia? You look like a fiend, sitting
there smiling like you just killed Bastien.” His words haul me firmly back
to the present.
“Sorry to disappoint but the little bastard is around here
somewhere. Probably torturing defenseless animals.” Alek hates Bastien
almost as much as I do.
“Shit, she’s coming over with another tray of food. If she keeps at
it, you’re going to have to roll me over to training.”
Envisioning Alek plump, wobbling over to training, with a sword
clutched in his chubby fingers makes me laugh. When Denli/Djali reaches
our table, setting down a plate of steaming greens, intentionally brushing up
against Alek, I notice her beautiful face made even more striking by her
kind eyes. She’s young, possibly a year older than I, but she’s seen suffering
as well. For her sake, I really hope Alek does remember her name.
Many would assume Alek’s dalliances would anger or at least
trouble me to some degree, but they don’t. He might be the single man
permitted near my body, but I don’t allow anyone near my soul. I’d never
describe him as my lover, for we don’t make love- we find solace. Or at
least I do.
He’s not just my friend or consort. Alek’s my Alala. My battle-cry.
He’s the blade of my battles, the blood of my wounds, and the release of my
soul. He’s the single person I could never ride into battle without. The one
to give me a swift death should I ever need one.
The bond of the Alala is sacred, a blood oath taken in the name of
Ares, God of War, the single god still honored across Lyca. Many never
take the oath for it’s a death pact, a pledge upheld until one warrior reaches
the banks of the River Styx. The Alala bonding ritual was simple enough, a
few oaths uttered, some blood spilled, then sealed with an ouroboros
marking seared across the warrior’s blade hand, displayed for the world to
see. The entire ceremony was over in less than ten minutes, but it’s not the
ceremony itself that’s important. It’s the strength of the bond that’s
significant. It’s a pairing that goes beyond the pledge of marriage or fealty,
a bond so sacredly rooted in the throes of battle that very few even consider
it.
Even in Nymphai the bonding was incredibly rare. When I was a
child, I always envisioned Kai as my Alala. He was the Grey Commander
in our father’s army, a ranking earned not by lineage but through pure
unrelenting savagery. He was one of the finest with a sword, as well as my
best friend. There wasn’t a single soul alive I trusted more to stand beside
me in battle. After his death, I knew I’d never find another friend like him. I
never even considered taking an Alala until the night Alek proposed the
idea.
Late one evening about a year ago, Alek suggested we complete the
ritual. I assumed he was joking. Once I realized his sincerity, it took me all
of five seconds to agree. His responding beam was so pure, so genuine, so
unlike the Alek I’d come to know, that I almost felt guilty about my
reasoning behind the agreement.
It wasn’t that I didn’t want the bond with Alek. He’s an elite warrior
even among the Dire, but I’d be lying if I said that was my main motivation.
Being in Jakobian’s thrall, I knew I’d meet a bloody end, at Bastien’s hand
most likely. But to have Alek make the killing blow, should the occasion
arise, would have been a gift, a subtle reminder that I’m not entirely alone
in this mountain of monsters.
We performed the ritual the following week after Jakobian
approved the request. Though Roman wasn’t a huge fan of the idea, he
attended the ceremony nevertheless along with the rest of the Dire.
Standing there at the altar, sweat running down my palms, I couldn’t figure
out what Alek was to gain from the bonding. He comes from one of the
most prominent families in Bezarus, the southernmost territory in western
Lyca. Up until his death, his father was the territory’s Grey Commander, the
most powerful ranking one can hold aside from the Beta. Alek’s eldest sister
Nyxia won his rank eventually, with Alek set to follow. When he was
instead recruited for the Dire, it was viewed as a great honor. Taking the
disgraced daughter of Nymphai as an Alala was unthinkable. To this day,
I’ve never been able understand his motives, not that it matters.
I’m just grateful he’s mine.
“Pei? Peia?” Alek asks from across the table.
“Sorry, what?” I ask, floating back to the present.
“Are you still coming to Salome’s tonight?” Salome’s is a shabby
little tavern that rests on the outskirts of Crysax, the village nearest the
mountain’s base. The pub lays hidden in an old alleyway near the village
square. Though it isn’t the closest tavern to the Ruin, it remains a frequent
haunt for most wolves of the Dire. “Or is it your night with Iren?”
“Jakobian changed the schedule this week because of the Trek. I’ll
see her tomorrow after….” I begin, but the ire contorting Alek’s features
robs me of words. His eyes are searching above me to the space at my back.
On instinct, I reach for my kitchen knife. I’m a moment too late, another
hand snatching it up. Without uttering a single repulsive word, I know
exactly who it is.
“Now, now. None of that. I know how you like to get stabby with
these things.” His arms are a cage of muscle and ink, pressing against the
table on either side of me from behind.
My eyes find Alek, his face drenched in annoyance, remaining
utterly silent. I take in my arsenal, what remains of my potential weaponry:
a half-eaten plate of meat, a pitcher of water, a half empty metal cup, and a
serving spoon.
Since the outcome of our mid-day trial, a daily sparring match held
solely among Dire, Bastien typically waits until we’re alone to provoke me.
It seems the oncoming festivities are making him bold.
“And to what do I owe this pleasure, Bastien?” My voice remains
level, nonchalant. Turning to face him, he responds by dipping his head
lower, his breath brushing against me cheek. The warmth is suffocating, I
have to turn away.
“Just wanted a word with the whore of Nymphai. Since Alek takes
up most of your nights, I thought I’d try my luck during the day.” Even with
the pointed jab, Alek doesn’t rise to the bait. I, on the other hand, have a
very hard time biting my tongue.
“I take it your beds cold as ever. I’ll never understand why, with
charm such as yours,” I tease playfully. “Could it be a size issue?”
Had he been facing me straight on, I might’ve shot him a wink.
His voice lowers an octave. “Just waiting on someone special,
another Nymphian you might know. She’s grown into quite the young
woman, that sister of yours.”
Self-control depleted, I reach for my mug, crashing it back to
collide with his face. As he stumbles backwards, I seize the opportunity to
swipe Alek’s knife from across the table. I whirl on him, my knife hand at
the ready.
This, right here, is the reason weapons were banned from the mess
hall.
To many times have I pulled a blade on someone.
“Pei,” Alek pleads, not out of worry but a warning. The room has
grown quiet, our confrontation the focal point of this morning’s
entertainment. Starting a fight now would only get me in trouble, might
even ruin my chances of spending time with Iren. Unwilling to take the risk,
I bite back my anger, lowering my knife, but never releasing my grip.
“I’m really not in the mood Bastien,” I force out.
“I like the crows,” he says, nodding towards my neck. “Though I
thought you’d choose something a little more graphic, considering the gore
you left behind.” The memory of the farmer and his family, bloody and
broken, floods back. “How old was the youngest? Twenty? Nineteen?”
“Eighteen.” I remember every kill, every soul pilfered. I refuse to
forget a single death, my stains a constant reminder of every terrible deed.
 “I asked for the assignment, you know. Guess Jakobian thought
you’d enjoy it more,” he drones on, eyes alight, smoldering with a
calculated amusement only Bastien could muster when speaking of the
dead. What I wouldn’t give to bury my knife in his chest, watch him slowly
bleed out into the void.
That’d be one stain I’d wear with pride.
“Get out of my sight Bastien unless you’d care to know gruesome
firsthand.” The threat comes out weaker than intended.
“Well, wasn’t this lovely. I hope to see much more of you once we
reach Tairheia,” he says smugly, gloating. “See you in training Ker. I’ll
suggest Roman pair us up today, though I know you’d just hate to be
separated from your Alala.” The last word drips with disgust, the fact
unsavory, vile. As he slinks off, I keep my eyes trained on his retreating
form.
“Interesting morning. Never a dull moment with you around,” Alek
jokes. “Could definitely go for something stronger than water right about
now,” he says, taking a sip from his cup. I look up to find him standing
beside me, a questioning look pointed my direction. “C’mon, Alala,” he
mutters in Bastien’s identical tone, “I’m in the mood to kick that perky ass
of yours.”

CHAPTER 5
Each morning after breakfast every soldier in the Ruin is required to attend
three hours of weapons training followed by three hours of hand to hand,
with lunch and the mid-day trial in between. Once training has been
completed for the day, the lower ranking soldiers return to their assigned
posts while the Dire can spend their evenings as they please. This is the set
schedule day in and day out, remaining constant unless a kill has been
ordered. Once a Dire has carried out their kill order, no matter the hour,
they’re finished for the day.
 It’s no surprise I have more free afternoons than most.
The clanging of metal shrieks out across the ground floor as I
follow Alek out the mess hall doors, keeping to the path that leads to our
training sector, the Loft. The ground floor of the Ruin is where you’ll find
most of the soldiers hard at work. All warriors save for the Dire, train in the
Marsh, an expansive chamber that takes up almost the entirety of the
ground level, save for the mess hall and kitchen. It’s equipped with all the
essentials, everything one might need to hone an elite fighter: basic
weaponry, weights, armor. The Dire, on the other hand, train in the Loft, an
area located on the top level of the Ruin. Though the chamber is half the
magnitude of the Marsh, what it lacks in size it makes up for in lethality.
The route up to the Loft is a journey in itself.
After the initial ten story climb up the main staircase, a narrow
hallway connects the Ruin’s core building with the pure rock of the
mountain. As the path continues, it tapers off slightly into a small
antechamber built into the heart of mountain. Just beyond, the final stretch
of the journey awaits, a moderate climb through the center of a monstrous
chasm that splits the section of rock in two.
Small, shallow foot holes have been carved into one side of the
chasm, the side opposite defined by jagged rock protruding outward, the
claws of the mountain scraping at our backs. The space is tight, the serrated
rock a looming threat at the back of our minds, but spacious enough to
allow even the bulkiest of Dire through with their sheaths stilled attached.
Granted, the final climb to the Loft is by far the shortest stretch of the way,
but it still takes even the most agile climbers a decent amount of time to
scale.
Once you reach the ledge of the chasm, the gap acts as a threshold,
opening into the modest cavernous space that makes up the Loft. The room
itself has only three walls, composed exclusively of mountain rock,
smoothed out in some areas, left rough in others. They’re adorned solely by
Beta Jakobian’s prized arsenal, a wide array of weapons from all over the
realm bestowed upon the Beta as an act of allegiance or simply taken by
force. Majority of the weapons I recognize from my time with the Omega
tribes. Others are so foreign they could be mistaken for rubbish had I found
them on the street.
The space where a fourth wall should stand lays empty, with
nothing, not even a window, shielding the room from the bitter outside
world. The area extends into a balcony of sorts ending right at the
mountains edge. When the weather permits, the entirety of training is held
outside in the elements.
Roman relayed that at one time they held the mid-day trial out on
the ledge each afternoon until to many Dire starting using it to their
advantage, flinging their opponents off the side of the mountain.
I know one Dire I’d love to send plummeting into the mouth of the
gorge below.
As Alek and I make our way across the chamber towards Sare, our
assignment commander for the day, my eyes shoot towards the empty space
on the wall where my own khopesh blades used to rest. The memory of the
fight that earned them comes to mind, clear as glass.
One of the few small victories I’ve managed in this prison of rock.
-------------------------------------
During my first week in the Ruin, Jakobian had me training down
in the Marsh with the lower ranking soldiers. Apparently, it was a
“privilege” to be able to train up in the Loft, one I had yet to earn. What
was surely meant as a punishment made no real difference to me. The
soldiers in the Marsh weren’t weak, but decidedly less deadly than those of
the Dire. Of course, my ever-disgruntled CO wasn’t too pleased about my
training placement. Following three long days of annoyed grumbling and
infuriated glares, Roman finally decided to broach the subject using
complete sentences.
“You’re holding back,” he barks, cutting off my path to the mess
hall.
“Maybe you’re just overestimating my skills,” I retort.
“No. You’re forgetting I’ve trained you myself, fought with you on
more than one occasion. I know the ferocity you’re capable of.” His gaze
probing, I have to turn away.
Throughout that first voyage from the Forsaken Lands to Krua,
Roman and I trained daily, never missing a single session. With no other
outlet for my rage, I used the training as a time to vent, resulting in Roman
taking the brunt of my anger. He knows all too well the damage I can
inflict.
“Meet me at the stairs after lunch,” he clips.
My stomach lurches when I realize Roman’s intentions.
“What about the Marsh?” A useless attempt to delay the
inevitable.
“Forget the Marsh, it’s a waste of time. I’m taking you up to the
Loft.”
“Jakobian said…”
“Fuck Jakobian.” Hearing him speak so brazenly against his father
lifts my spirits immensely, subduing my unease at the idea of being thrown
into the wolves’ den upstairs. “But fair warning Peia,” he says, meeting my
gaze yet again, “that crap I saw this morning out in the Marsh won’t fly in
the Loft. The other Dire are just itching for a piece of you.” And just like
that, my unease returns in all its terrifying glory. “And if the climb doesn’t
kill you, one of them might,” he adds before turning his back, leaving me
alone with my qualms.
It truly is insufferably annoying how often Roman is right.
For when I finally do manage to make it up to the Loft, I’m not only
heaving up my lungs, my lunch gearing up to make its reappearance across
the stone floor, but every pair of eyes regards me with such utter contempt I
swear the room chills a few degrees. I follow closely at Roman’s heels,
careful to stay clear of the ledge. Although I’m anxious to take in the view
from this height, I know better than to present someone the opportunity of
pushing me right off the side.
“What’s she doing up here Roman? The Loft is supposed to be free
of vermin.” To my surprise, only a few of the soldiers’ snicker at Bastian’s
comment.
I guess not all Dire are as petty as him. Seems he truly is one of a
kind.
“She’s here for the trial,” he responds, bypassing Bastien’s
comment. “You’ve been begging for another round with her. Here’s your
chance.”
“What’s the trial?” I ask as he steers us towards a table at the far
wall, my mind conjuring up all manner of horrible, torturous scenarios.
“It’s a fight, a sparring match between two of the Dire. Some make
wagers over the outcome but that’s not your concern. It’s meant to be a non-
lethal exercise but we both know Bastien will aim to kill you.”
Turns out, it’s far worse than I imagined.
“So, that’s why you dragged me up here? To die for your sick
amusement?” I ask, my tone incredulous as we reach the table.
Rearing on me, he growls, “I dragged you up here, so you could
remove that target from your back.” When I fail to respond, my confusion
palpable, he explains. “For weeks Bastien’s been boasting about how he
had you begging at his feet for mercy. That’s left many of the Dire
questioning your rank.”
“I don’t care if they question it.”
“You should. Weakness is nothing short of a death sentence here in
the Ruin and I don’t just mean for you.” He doesn’t have to say her name. I
know after my death, my sister’s would shortly follow. Iren lives if I do, as
long as I continue to be of use in Krua.
“What do I need to do?”
“Win.” I nod my understanding, a sinister sort of anticipation
replacing my initial fear. Beating Bastien here, in front of his fellow beasts,
would be a pleasure. “Good, but first you need to change.” He quickly
hands me a small item from the table.
For a moment, I almost don’t recognize it. The item is pristine, a
true work of art. An actual lycantium wrist cuff adorned with Beta
Jakobian’s own sigil. Lycantium is said to be the toughest metal in the
world, forged from the flames of the Underworld by Hades. It seems I was
too preoccupied earlier to take notice of the new Dire armor spread out on
the table in front of me.
“I already have armor,” I reply, handing the cuff back to Roman.
“It’s crap and ill-fitting. Take this,” he says passing me the rest of
the items. The breast plate is tiny, I almost laugh.
“You can’t honestly expect me to wear this. It’s miniature. I’ve seen
children with larger armor than this.”
In the few short seconds it takes Roman to form his response, I
swear I detect the slightest hint of a smile, it soon vanishing without every
fully appearing. “I had it tailored specifically for you. It’ll fit.”
I take the pieces without another word and against all odds they do
fit, the ebony leather comfortably caressing the curvature of my body as if it
were a mere extension of my own flesh. The miniature breastplate fitting to
perfection. I try to discard the cuffs but Roman’s adamant I wear them. He’s
more familiar with Bastien’s fighting style so I don’t push the issue. Once
I’ve finished suiting up, Roman leads me over to a small rectangular arena
near the opposite wall where majority of the Dire have gathered. The arena
sits atop a raised platform just inside the Loft balcony.
Bastien’s already situated near the center, the Dire gathered tightly
around the borders, anxiously waiting for the battle to commence. Bracing
the first step up to the platform, Roman hands me a slim sheath housing a
modest blade. It’s reminiscent of the weapon my father gave me for my
fourteenth name day, the beautiful piece lost the night we fled the raid on
Nymphai.
“Thank you,” I say, slinging the sheath over my shoulder.
“This will not be a fair fight, Peia. He’ll do anything to beat you.
Stay alive.” A final command before taking his place on the sidelines.
Upon entering the arena, I allow the ancient primeval creature
dwelling within me to take control. I’m no longer a being of thought, only a
weapon of instinct. I leave the blade at my back, unable to tear my eyes
from Bastien. I passively await his first move. He’s a creature of rage, a
brute of strength. He’s going to rush me. I know it, but I’m ready.
Sensing his assault, I leave my blade idle, skirting the swipe as one
would avoid a simple nuisance, the swatting of a fly. His next strike I catch
on my cuff, holding it firm, not giving a single inch. I know the move is a
show of arrogance but that’s my intention. I don’t simply want to beat him; I
want disgrace him in front of his fellow Dire.
As my movements come more fluidly, his strikes become reckless,
his blade swinging wildly through the air. The crusade is expending his
energy, his jabs moving more slowly each time. I throw him my most
mischievous smile, a look so suggestive I feel his irritation singeing the air
around us. I can almost sense the room bracing for the oncoming storm as a
nasty snarl rips free from somewhere deep within Bastien’s throat.
This time when his blade comes for me, I meet it with my own.
The clashing of steel is deafening as we continue our dance across
the expanse of the arena. Each move is met blow for blow, our fighting so
evenly matched I fear this will continue forever. It isn’t until Bastien takes a
surprisingly hard hit against the stone wall, that the fight finally takes a
turn. Thinking the hit has worked in my favor, I’m caught off guard when
the shuriken comes hurtling towards me. I’ve scarcely enough time to dive
out of the way and even then, the dagger still grazes my blade arm. I flip,
quickly rolling to my feet to assess the damage.
The cut is shallow, but the message is clear. He was the first to spill
blood. Roman’s warning replays in my mind.
This will not be a fair fight, Peia.
Cowardly bastard.
 I should’ve finished him off by now. I don’t dare find Roman among
the crowd, the shame flushing my cheeks. Though I know he has his own
motives for wanting me to succeed, it’s still a comfort knowing someone up
here isn’t wishing for me to fail.
Enough is enough though, it’s time to end this. If he won’t fight fair,
then neither will I.
I now quickly calculate what needs to be done, the plan rapidly
forming in my mind. Now the only obstacle that remains is getting to the
weapons wall without Bastien suspecting what I’m up to.
Back in Nymphai, my father made it a point of drilling his soldiers
about the essentials needed for victory in battle. His fundamental rule was
to never rely on your weapon to save you. “Your skill is your weapon, your
steel your crutch,” he used to say. He never allowed his soldiers double
blades in battle; it boasts of arrogance and pride he believed. Of course, as
the ever-obedient children wen were, Kai and I set out to prove him wrong.
Each evening after training, we’d spend hours sparring with two
blades apiece until wielding them became second nature, the steel an
extension of our very bones. To say our Beta was unpleased to be proven
wrong would’ve been an understatement, but he didn’t punish us. He was
never a proud man, always excepting of his mistakes. He appreciated the
new knowledge questions could yield. After that, Kai and I both carried
mated blades without question.
And to think, in this arena of wolves and blood, that the skill that
can save me now arose from the stubbornness of two children who thought
it wise to defy their father.
I set my sights on a simple xiphos hanging low on the wall. It’s
shorter than the blade I have now but I know from experience it’s sturdier,
easier to wield with my weaker hand and perfect for what I intend to do.
Deciding now is the time to change tactics, I switch to the offensive. I
charge him, my blade flying swiftly towards his throat. His blade catches
mine effortlessly, his new spirit of arrogance reinforcing his drive. I feign
frustration, continuing my assault until I’m convinced he’s lowered his
guard.
When his smug grin resurfaces, I charge him a final time, quickly
anticipating where his return blow will land. Instead of taking the block
with my cuff, I slide under it, turning swiftly to face Bastien once again. The
dodge buys me a few seconds, the move clearly surprising my opponent. I
steady myself, silently running my left hand against the wall at my back,
searching for the cool touch of metal that may prove to be my salvation.
When I find the blade, the hilt firmly grasped in the center of my palm, I
ready myself for the finish.
Bastien lunges for me, his sword viciously searching for my
exposed flesh. In a move that my brother and I mastered, perfected over
countless sleepless nights, I catch his blade between my own, locking it into
the notch where the two blades come together. His shock is palpable, his
demeanor no longer dripping with self-importance. I let the scenario sink in
for a moment, allow him to sense the full weight of what’s to come, before I
use my residual strength to flip him on his back.
Not allowing a single moment to recover, I rush him, bringing down
the heel of my boot onto the wrist of his sword arm. He roars in pain as the
blade drops from his grasp. I quickly kick it away, sending it skidding
across the arena floor. Soon I’m atop him, my legs straddling either side of
his torso, my blades intersected across his neck. He’s left only two options:
yield or die.
I voice the choice aloud.
“Yield or I can grant you a red smile to replace your own,” I say.
His returning glare is a thing of nightmares, a look so horrendous it would
fit nicely down in the depths of Tartarus. When it’s clear he has no intention
of yielding, I slice my xiphos across his neck, the blood slowing pooling
along the stone floor. It’s only fair I draw blood as well. “Yield or die,” I
repeat louder so it reaches the ears of our audience. Sensing the legitimacy
of my threat, Bastien has no choice but to yield. The room is in absolute
silence as I slide my blade back in its sheath and return the xiphos to its
rightful place on the wall. Roman is at my side before I can even finish.
“You did well,” he says, his compliment a welcome surprise. I can’t
speak just yet, silently watching as he turns to reach for a peculiar looking
blade hanging high on the wall. “Here,” he says, handing the steel over.
The weapon is heavy, undoubtedly made from the toughest of metals. The
hilt of it closer to that of a knife than an actual sword. The blade itself
extends straight about halfway until curving slightly inward, resembling
that of a sickle, the very tip shaped in the form of a shallow hook. “It’s the
khopesh,” he explains. “They’re rare, infrequently mastered, and now it’s
yours. Its mate hangs on the wall,” he adds, motioning towards the hanging
blade. “None of the Dire are allotted mated blades but prove your skill and
it’s yours.”
I had the double sheath strapped to my back by the end of the week.

CHAPTER 6
“Fantasizing about me again?” Alek teases as we reach Sare.
“Huh?” I murmur, not realizing I’d been grinning like an idiot.
“Replaying the memory of last night over again, are we?”
“I’m sorry, did you come by last night? I completely forgot.”
“Asshole,” he laughs. “And you’re a terrible liar,” he says, giving
me a playful shove. I return the push with more force than necessary,
sending him colliding with Scabs, a huge, monstrosity of a man with an
extremely unfortunate nickname. Scabius is one of Bastien’s most devoted
cronies, loyal to a fault, and one of the lowest ranking Dire.
Technically, there isn’t supposed to be a ranking system within the
Dire but that hasn’t stopped the soldiers from recognizing one. The system
is simple: more kills, equals more ink, equals higher ranking. Going by that
logic you’d think I’d be goddess of the Dire or its equivalent but being
forced to kill is different than choosing to in honor of your Beta. My skill
and ink count are respected, feared even, but not honored. I’m still a slave
of Krua after all.
“Touch me again and I’ll cut your arm off,” Scabs warns, shoving
Alek away.
“Not now, Scabby. It’s too early in the morning for empty threats,”
Alek answers with an air of indifference. Scabs is vicious, a savagery
teetering on the brink of madness, but there’s a reason he holds such a low
rank. Dire are meant to be sleek, quick and efficient without needing to be
gaudy. Scabs is the complete opposite- loud, brash, shameless. He’d be far
better suited as a common foot soldier on the frontlines then as a member of
the Dire. Even Jakobian must realize his mistake, selecting him for so few
assignments.
 “That’s enough!” Sare shoots a warning glance in our direction.
“Today’s pairings are as follows: Absinthe and Koren, Tykaeus and
Andromeda….”
Alek gets paired with Spyridon, a new member of the Dire and
worthy enough adversary. I listen patiently as the list is read, anxiously
waiting to hear my opponent. I’m itching for a fight, my body trembling
with anticipation. When Sare finally reaches my name, I find myself
smiling with excitement, genuinely pleased with my challenger.
Milos is a native Kruan, a fifth generation Dire. Even so, he’s never
treated me as anything less than a formidable adversary. He was born into
this life, bred to serve his Beta in the greatest way possible, but unlike most,
he takes no pleasure in the kill. He’s not overly vicious or intentionally
cruel. He merely does what’s commanded of him. If I had to select my
preferred opponent it would be him, more so than even Alek. When Milos
and I fight there’s no underlying hatred or loathing, only a fierce sense of
focus and concentration on the fight at hand. It’s freedom of a different
kind, a feeling of liberation and release distinct from what I feel when I’m
with Alek.
Not to mention, he is pretty easy on the eyes. He’s lean, tall,
clearing at least six feet, his skin a deep bronze with eyes as rich as
chocolate. He keeps his onyx hair clipped short, less likely to hinder him in
a fight, he says. I’m certain there isn’t a male or female around who doesn’t
find him striking.
Since I’m comfortable enough with Milos, I suggest we take our
match out onto the ledge to fight under the poor excuse of a sun. We have
the entire balcony to ourselves, the biting mountain air and looming drop
enough to keep even the boldest away. I spread out, taking full advantage of
the open space while keeping a reasonable distance from the edge. The air
is crisp, invigorating. I inhale deeply letting the outside world consume me
as I meet my opponent’s eyes. An unspoken moment of understanding
passing between us before I unsheathe a single khopesh and charge him.
I might be the fastest of the Dire, but he’s far from slow, his kopis
drawn in a single fluid movement meant to deflect my attack. Our blades
meet with such potency, I fear we’ll turn this mountain to rubble. We
continue our dance until we’re both gasping for breath, our limbs begging
for mercy. The fight was close, our skills too evenly matched, this round
ultimately going to me. Barely.
 “You were slow on the draw,” I tell him between breaths.
“I know, I felt it. There’s a chink in the curve and it keeps
catching,” he says, eyeing his blade. Milos isn’t one to anger easily by
criticism. In fact, he’s just the opposite, the type who’s always open to
suggestions when it comes to improving his technique. Another reason I
enjoy his company above others. “Why only the single blade?”
“I’m trying to keep the other sheathed for as long as possible. Pull
it out only when it’s vital, life or death.” Milos says nothing, only offering a
single nod. He, if anyone, can appreciate a weapons strategy.
“Mind if we switch to ring daggers?” he asks. “They sliced the crap
out of my fingers last time, nasty fuckers, but I saw your fight with Gregor.
One strategically placed slice and the fight was over.” I offer him a genuine
smirk which he returns with fervor.
If I’m being candid, I adore the daggers, relish the feel of them in
my palms. Small, slender, feeble looking as they may be, I consider them
unparalleled in lethality. Alek says I have an abnormal obsession with them
but what does he know.
I follow Milos towards the weapons wall. He decides on a pair of
elongated blades, the longest of the group, while I opt for the shortest pair.
“My babies,” as Alek calls them, are the runts of the daggers and often
ignored because of their size. We head back outside, fighting tirelessly for a
solid hour until we’re summoned for the trial, our muscles aching from
overuse.
“I see you couldn’t go a single day without using those damn
things,” Alek remarks with a grin.
“Alek, I know your dagger technique is appalling, but frankly
jealousy looks ugly on you.”
Knocking me tenderly under the chin, he tuts, “Like I said, terrible
liar. Nothing looks ugly on me. I could be wearing Roman’s eternal scowl
and still have the ladies begging for seconds.” His exaggerated wink only
adds to my good mood, but I keep my grin subdued.
I’m nervous to find out who today’s challengers will be. My name
hasn’t been called for a trial in a couple weeks, so I know my time is due.
I’m hoping I won’t have to compete until after we return from the Trek but
I’m still anticipating the draw. I’ve come to conclude that luck has
abandoned me in favor of more pleasant folks.
“For today’s trial, we have Mahail and…,” announces Sare, pausing
slightly between names, “Roman.”
My relief at not having been selected is short lived as I watch
Roman make his way to the arena. Roman’s an exceptional fighter, a
warrior through and through, but for reasons incomprehensible, watching
him enter a trial fills me with the worst kind of fear, an undeniable sense of
dread that refuses to let up until he’s been named victorious. I find myself
heading towards Roman, my feet moving of their own volition.
“He favors his left and sneers as he’s about to thrust,” I tell him
when he’s within earshot. I match his pace, walking alongside him up to the
arena steps. “And watch his feet. The little prick likes to kick up dirt into
people’s eyes,” I add though irrelevant, the stone floor nearly clear of any
debris. I’m expecting a look of exasperation, but his features remain blank.
“Thanks,” he says, taking the final stairs up. I hurry to the front of
the platform hoping for a clear view of the fight.
“Did you offer him a lock of your hair for good luck?” Alek asks,
taking the place at my right. I hadn’t noticed his approach, my thoughts too
preoccupied with the upcoming trial.
“Just declaring my undying love. Thought it was overdue.”
“About time,” he says, “The man could use a little action.” I land a
punch to his shoulder, my mood instantly lighter. “He’ll be fine,” he adds,
“Mahail will be lucky if he keeps both arms.”
We watch as the fight begins, their blades soaring on wings of steel.
Alek is right, it’s clear from the start who’ll win this fight. There’s no
denying Mahail is a fine warrior, his moves fluid, his blade firm, but they
pale in comparison when matched against Jakobian’s son. Mahail quickly
decides on the offensive, lashing out wildly with each strike firmly met.
Steel calls to steel as the harmonious pounding of blades
continues.
It’s not by chance or fate that I’m the Ker of Krua. My capabilities
do not steam from some predisposition for violence or by my father’s firm
hand. No, it’s my CO I must thank for my ability to end lives. If I know of
any absolutes in this world of ceaseless uncertainty, it’s this: Roman
Jakobian was placed on this Earth for no other reason than to spill blood.
He was born for combat. When he fights, it appears effortless, a soldier
moving purely on instinct. After watching him take on any opponent,
there’s not a single being who could deny the obvious. His body may be
made of flesh, his frame of bone, but his soul was forged of war, for battle.
 After a particularly powerful blow sends Mahail’s sword clattering
to the ground, Roman discards his as well leading to a brutal trial by fists.
In a second, the air in the loft is electrified sending the Dire into an absolute
frenzy with a thirst so severe only the spilling of crimson could possibly
quench it. Although an uncommon occurrence, there’s no negating the
popularity of a trial concluding by fist.
To the rest of the Dire the fight must seem evenly matched, but I
know different. When you’re as familiar with Roman’s fighting as I am, it’s
easy to recognize when he’s holding back. The slower feet, the weaker jabs.
It isn’t a show of arrogance or pride, he simply doesn’t want the fight to end
just yet.
Fairly certain Roman’s victory is cemented, I turn my attention to
the crowd, letting my eyes linger over the gaunt figure that’s been appointed
our commander for the day. Sare’s in the section to my left, his eyes trained
so intently on Roman I’m convinced he’s no longer breathing. I search his
chest for the telltale rise-fall of a living being but find his still as stone. I
take in his profile, focus on the snake-like slit of his eyes. From this
distance it’s difficult to be certain, but I don’t think he’s blinked once in the
last couple of minutes. As if invading my thoughts, he turns to me, his
features quickly slithering into a sneer. If the look was meant to be
disturbing and off putting, it worked like a charm.
I’ve never liked Sare. He’s eerie, smarmy, and slinks about the
entire Ruin creeping the shit out of people. He’s a skinny elderly man with a
straight nose and hollowed out face who closer resembles a corpse than an
actual living human being. He’s gaunt, sickly in a way no other Dire dare
be. I could never understand why Jakobian appointed him a position among
his top generals when all his remaining years could be counted on a single
hand.
When he notices my continuous staring, he glides his tongue along
his upper lip. A beast taunting its prey. The look is vile, the stuff nightmares
parents warn their children of. I counter with my most dazzling smile
followed by a rather obscene gesture. He looks amused but with that nose
of his, along with the bushy eyebrows, it’s hard to tell.
A moment away from expressing my disgust with my customary
level of vulgarity, the one that usually results in my punishment, a hand on
my arm turns me back towards the fight. I must’ve missed something
significant during my glaring contest with commander corpse because what
started out as a calmly matched brawl has promptly transformed into an all-
out bloodbath.
“What the fuck happened?” I ask, incredulity dripping off every
word. I expected Roman to win, not completely rearrange Mahail’s face.
“You won’t be able to recognize him if Roman doesn’t let up soon.”
“He really pissed him off. Looked like Mahail said something to
him, but I couldn’t make out what.”
I wait anxiously for the trial to be called, for the carnage to end, but
the roar of the crowd renders that impossible. Sare would never end a fight
such as this. The cracking of bone is unmistakable as Roman lands another
blow to his opponents’ face, this time right on the bridge of his nose.
Mahail’s responding wail is sopping with agony. Even I feel sorrow for
him. The sound affects Roman as well, his fist frozen mid-blow, as if stilled
by Medusa. He doesn’t wait for his victory to be called, merely rising to his
feet and marching off the arena stage without so much as a backward glance
at his defeated opponent. I rush to meet him, falling into place at his side.
“What did he say to you?” When he fails to answer, I add in some
of that humor he loves so much. “Did he criticize your hair? Comment on
your slow run time? Maybe it was your ass he insulted.”
At this he turns, the full power of his gaze directed exclusively on
me. “Insults are just empty words, they mean nothing. He thought it wise to
make threats against a fellow Dire.” I can almost hear his teeth splintering,
his jaw locked so tightly. “Rest assured,” he continues, “he won’t be
making that mistake again.” Continuing his departure, I don’t say anything
as I watch him reach the chasm, disappearing down into its depths.
Roman’s words weren’t explicit yet, I’ve got a pretty good idea
who he was referring to.
“What did the conquering hero have to say about his victory?”
pipes Alek.
“It was a great honor to serve his Beta, the gods would surely
whimper in his presence, we must all worship at his feet for he is the new
deity, etcetera, etcetera. Same old stuff really.” Our laughter rings in sync as
we make our way down for lunch, though mine feels a little forced.
I won’t share Roman’s words with anyone, not even Alek. There
are certain things I know my CO wouldn’t want to be made public, this
being among them. I may complain about Roman and his abrasiveness
regarding my training, but I’ve always considered him an ally. And for
some illogical reason, have the yearn to protect
him.
Lunch is uneventful, the soldiers too preoccupied with talk of
the trial to stir any trouble. Roman doesn’t join us in the mess hall nor does
he make an appearance back in the Loft. Mahail’s absent as well but that’s
not a massive surprise. The rumors milling about say Roman split his skull
in two, right down the center of his face, with the skin practically gliding
off the bone. The Dire might be a squad of elite killers, but they’re still a
bunch of gossips.
Back in the Loft, Sare ends up pairing me with Absinthe for hand to
hand which works for me. She’s a damn fine warrior and I’m itching for a
fight. Today’s trial has left me uneasy and there’s nothing like a good
session to take my mind off things. Absinthe and I go round after round,
neither of us letting up, the pair of us pretty evenly matched.
By the time Sare signals that training is done for the day, I’m
exhausted, completely sprawled out on the training room floor, limbs
malformed by iron and steel. I make a plea to the universe, begging for an
eternity lying on the cool stone floor. It’s not shocking when my wish goes
unanswered. I’ve never known the universe to be kind.
“Will you guys be at Salome’s later?” asks Absinthe. I open my
eyes to find her staring down at me, her cool hazel gaze meeting mine. The
root of her shoulder length hair sits plastered against her forehead; the
copper locks drenched in sweat. The question is odd, out of place. Not only
does she usually keep to herself, but I don’t think I’ve ever seen her leave
the Ruin. I’m assuming by “guys,” she’s referring to Alek and myself.
“Yeah, we’ll probably head over around ten,” I reply, raising myself
to my elbows. Her face is pensive as if wrestling with her next words. “Do
you want to come with us?” I quickly add.
“No, never mind,” she says, her voice dropping to a whisper.
Turning to leave, it seems she’s not able to get away fast enough. The entire
exchange is so awkward and out of the ordinary, I can’t suppress my
laughter as I sink back to the floor.
“Laughing to yourself again? I hear that’s the first sign of lunacy.”
I don’t need to see him to know who it is. I’d recognize the voice
anywhere.
“Go away Alek. I prefer my slip into insanity to go unwitnessed.” I
refuse to move an inch.
 “That’s no excuse for rudeness,” he chides. When it becomes clear
I’ve chosen to ignore him, he decides to bless me with a shower, raggedly
shaking out his sweat drenched hair above me. The droplets are salty on my
lips, the rugged scent of him all too familiar.
“You’re dead,” I vow, jumping to my feet. He’s clever, having
already moved a few paces away, putting some distance between us. The
Loft is completely deserted save for the two of us, the other Dire having
cleared out for the day, leaving no witnesses for what I have planned.
“Oh c’mon, Pei. I was doing you a favor. You were looking
positively parched,” he says ducking out onto the balcony.
“And I appreciate it,” I say, grabbing the nearest carafe. “Now stop
running and let me demonstrate my gratitude.” Finally relenting, knowing
firsthand just how persistent I can be, I take my last remaining steps, my
pace agonizingly slow. When he’s within arm’s reach, I empty the contents
atop his head, the clear liquid soaking his dark hair. He laughs, roughly
racking his fingers through his midnight hued mane, leaving short spikes in
their wake. His shirt is a mixture of sweat and water, clinging tightly to his
chiseled form. We’re both tired, sweaty, alone, and thousands of feet from
the ground.
And gods, I’ve never wanted him more.
Reading my mind, he slowly reaches for the hem of my shirt
pausing momentarily, awaiting my go-ahead. Without a second’s hesitation,
I reach for the hem myself, hastily peeling it from my body before
discarding it over my shoulder. The icy wind is vicious against my
gleaming chest, the weak sun offering not a single reprieve, but I welcome
the torture, relish the reminder that I’m in fact alive despite the
insurmountable odds.
Selfish as it may be, when at last his lips meet mine, I let go
entirely, shedding my shame, finding my solace atop this mountain of
perdition.
 CHAPTER 7
“Is the maiden decent?” Alek asks, flinging open my chamber door without
waiting for a response. I’m busy rummaging around my wardrobe for some
dry boots when Alek lets himself in.
“You know Alek, your fist has a purpose beyond punching others or
breaking things. Some people bang theirs on closed doors. It’s a practice
known to the civilized world as knocking,” I comment, retrieving my boots
from the back of the wardrobe.
“Hmm knocking? Sounds arduous, a task for lesser men,” he
retorts. Finished with my laces, I reach for my thickest tunic. Without
turning, I can feel the weight of his gaze boring into my back.
From the waist up I’m stark-naked, my inked back bare and
exposed. His expression is carnal as I turn to face him, the tunic still
bunched in my hand. The move is deliberate, a not-so-subtle tease meant as
payment for his chivalrous behavior.
“Let’s just skip Salome’s tonight,” he suggests, eyes aflame.
“Tempting, but I’ve got a tall, dark, handsome pint waiting for me
and I’d hate to disappoint.” I finish pulling on my tunic.
“You and your ale,” he laughs. “One day very soon Peia, you’re
going to run them out of drink. I’d stake my life on it.”
“It’s possible,” I offer, shrugging on my leather overcoat, “but
highly unlikely. Nobody wants an angry Ker skulking about Krua.”
Slinging my sheath in place, I make towards the door, eager to be on our
way. My ire spikes when he makes no motion of moving.
“You’re a rather fearsome sight to behold.” His comment is
unexpected. I may joke about my title, but I’ve never forgotten its
significance or the acts of violence my own hands have inflicted to warrant
it. I’m not proud or honored to be a bringer of death the way Alek is.
“Even a coward can appear fearsome with enough blood on their
hands.” My tone is an ax, brutal and harsh. “Are you coming or not?” I clip,
heading out the door.
“I live but to follow you.” He falls into step at my side, his voice
once again a tenor of mirth and delight. I’m relieved to have the mood light
once more. “And lie in your bed,” he purrs at my ear. The warmth of his
breath, widespread against my skin, sends a flush to my cheeks. I clear my
throat, a conscious effort to mask the shudder that threatens to possess me.
We’d never make it out of the Pit, let alone to Salome’s, if Alek knew what
his words were capable of, the power they wield over my self-control.
“Sounds like a dull way to go about things.”
“You, dull? Never,” he states when we’ve reached the ladder. I
brace my foot on the first rung when he decides to continue. “Gloomy, sure.
Ill-tempered, maybe.”
“You mean charming?”
“I mean off-putting.”
“How about lovely?”
“More like unsightly.” Our game of words is silly, distracting, and
all together ridiculous but in the most brilliant of ways. By the time we’re
finally finished, we’ve already reached the Ruin’s ancient iron gates.
“Demented?” I ask, unfastening the latch. Night has fallen, the
grounds uncharacteristically solemn at this hour with most of the Dire
having already taken off for the evening.
“My gods absolutely, but never dull.” He taps out the last words.
The gesture is exaggerated, mimicking a scolding one might receive from a
parent. I fasten the latch behind us, following Alek down the dirt road
leading away from my rocky prison.
Salome’s isn’t far, about a mile and a half from the Ruin’s gates.
The journey usually doesn’t take longer than a half hour, even at our
relaxed pace. The night is abnormally dark, the moon nothing more than a
slim crescent in the sky. Torches line our path for about a quarter mile
before we’re plunged into darkness. I’m not nervous, I enjoy the cover of
night. The breeze is feeble but icy, leisurely creeping it’s way beneath my
coat. I instantly regret my lack of additional layers. Alek must sense my
discomfort because he offers me his own fleece.
I shrug him off, grateful for the offer. We continue in comfortable
silence, the wind the only living being for miles. We’re nearing the edge of
the wood, the gravel path leading into Crysax within sight, when I hear it,
the quiet snap of a twig just to the right. I have my blades unsheathed in a
second, the hilts clasped securely in my leathered hands.
“What is it?” Alek’s own blade is drawn and ready.
“You didn’t hear that?” I ask, taking in the forest around us. My
eyes have adjusted to the darkness, my vision clear as day. I hear movement
once again to my right, but it’s altered, different from before. No longer the
heavy tread of footsteps over twigs, it’s more of a slithering along the forest
floor. Before I can make out anything, the sound is gone, slithered off in
another direction.
“Pei, what is it?” Alek’s tone is alive with alarm.
“I think something was following us, but I couldn’t make out
what.”
“A wolf?”
“No, it sounded more like a serpent.”
“A snake this close to the mountain? I doubt it.” I hear him sheathe
his sword, the blade sliding home. “Snakes don’t travel this far into Krua.”
“Thank you for the insight, Alek. I had no idea you were such a
serpent expert.” My blades remain firmly in my grasp. Though sure our
pursuer is gone, I still can’t shake the feeling of being watched.
Stalked.
“You continuously forget Peia,” he says, closing the gap between
us. Quickly sheathing my weapons before someone accidently loses a limb,
he takes a step closer, seizing my lips with his. “I’m an expert in all things,”
he murmurs after a moment.
“Does your neck never tire from carrying around an ego such as
yours?” Continuing down the road, I leave Alek and his lips behind.
We soon reach the edge of town, the road illuminated by the faint
glow of inhabited cottages. The town is lively tonight, the residents
humming with anticipation for the upcoming Trek. I suggest we take the
back alleys the rest of the way. Though it may be the longer route, at least
I’ll avoid being gawked at. I don’t explain this reasoning to Alek, but he
doesn’t argue. An unsaid understanding acknowledged between us.
When we’ve reached the last stretch, I can hear the commotion
rising from Salome’s. Rounding the corner, I’m disappointed when I see the
crowd gathered out front. Most nights the tavern is occupied by Dire alone,
the town residents too timid to make an appearance, but not tonight. As we
make our way through the crowd towards the entrance, I notice the
unfamiliar company surrounding us. Merchants from the town square,
fisherman from the quarry, even a few of the Ruin help have made their
way to Salome’s for the evening.
Once inside, I’m instantly self-conscious.
It’s one thing to be surrounded by fellow Dire who tolerate me, but
it’s another thing entirely to be in the presence of townsfolk who loathe me.
 I’m reluctant to shed my coat though surely my double sheathe has
already given me away. I’m seconds from retreat when Alek takes my hand
firmly in his own, tugging me towards our usual table by the bar. Milos is
already seated at the table along with fellow Dires, Tykaeous and Koren.
They greet us over the bustle of the crowd, Milos motioning for me to take
the seat beside him.
“Give me your coat,” Alek shouts over the clamor. Sensing my
hesitation, he says nothing. Without another word I hand it over. I watch
his retreating figure vanish into the crowd, disappearing among the sea of
bodies.
“Excited for your first Trek?” Koren asks leaning towards me. “It’s
my first too.” Koren’s one of the youngest Dire, with so few stains they’re
easily hidden. He’s also one of the kindest of the pack with a friendliness so
genuine I sometimes forget he, too, is destined for slaying. Tykaeous on the
other hand is ignoring me like I’m pestilence taken human form. From the
corner of my eye, I can see Milos watching me keenly, waiting for my
response.
“Not really.” I don’t elaborate.
I like Koren, I don’t want to dampen his excitement with my own
foul mood. I’m grateful when a familiar hand plops down a pint in front of
me, Alek taking the seat directly across. I snatch the mug between my
fingers, deeply inhaling the earthy aroma, before taking a long pull. The
rich liquid is bliss as I finish half the mug in one swig. I can tell this isn’t
our usual lager. This one is sweeter, fruitier than what I’m used to, but
stronger as well. I’m light-headed, giddy even, by the time I down the
pint.
“What is this?” I ask, my words drawn out and exaggerated.
“Not sure,” Alek says between swigs, “something special they had
on tap for the Trek. Leora suggested it.” Leora is another of Alek’s admirers
who’s about as subtle as a monsoon. I shoot a quick glance towards the bar
and sure enough, there she is leaning against a pillar, undressing him with
her eyes. She sends me a friendly salute before heading back into the
kitchen.
Of the numerous ladies vying for Alek’s affection, Leora is one of
my favorites. She’s frank, vulgar, and doesn’t tolerate stupidity in her
tavern.
Not to mention all the free ale she sends our way.
 “Hmmm,” is the only response I can manage as I strain for the last
remaining drops. I’m about to ask Alek to get me more when I sense him
walk through the doors. I don’t turn right away, but I know he’s there. I
can’t explain it, this odd current that passes through me whenever he’s in
the vicinity. I always wonder if it’s the same for him, but I’d never dare ask.
I turn slowly, watching him march over to the bar.
Even clad in leather from head to toe, with every stain hidden, Beta
Jakobian’s son is unmistakable as he orders his drink. Taking his mug from
Leora, Roman heads to the table nearest the door. He’s sitting directly in my
eyeline, his head just to the right of Alek’s. Our eyes meet for the briefest of
moments, the gaze an answer to my unspoken question. He turns away first,
responding to a comment made by Spyridon. It must’ve been amusing
because the entire table erupts into laughter. Roman, too, cracks a slight
grin but I can tell the expression is artificial, the smile never fully reaching
his eyes. Not keen on the idea of being caught staring, I turn away.
“I’m going to get more,” I announce, hurrying towards the bar.
I’m halfway there when a pint sloshes over my head, drenching me
with its cool sticky contents. I reach for a blade on instinct, swiftly whirling
on my assailant. In a second, my khopesh is at his throat, my blade yearning
for a victim. My anger almost gets the better of me, my arm anticipating a
killing blow, until I take in the appearance of my attacker.
Standing in front of me with an empty mug clenched in one hand, a
feeble dagger poised for battle in the other, is a young boy no older than
sixteen. His hands are trembling, but his eyes are set, locked on mine with
such fury I’m surprised I haven’t been set ablaze.
“That farmer you killed along with his family, they were good
people, noble people and you butchered them like cattle. Filthy Ker,” the
boy spits, his voice deeper than his face would suggest.
The room has gone deathly still, the crowd silently awaiting my
response. I can sense movement to my right, a figure rapidly heading our
direction. I know who it is without looking. A quick shake of the head stops
him dead.
Roman won’t interfere unless I ask him to.
This isn’t the first time I’ve been publicly shamed for my savagery,
but it’s been so long I forgot the feeling, the humiliation and embarrassment
that accompanies it. The boy isn’t wrong. They were innocent, their only
crime trading in the Forsaken Lands as a means of survival. They did
deserve more than a bloody end and an inked stain of remembrance.
This is the reason Jakobian repeatedly selects me for public
executions. It’s better for him to have his people loathe the monster of
Nymphai rather than a true wolf of Krua. I ache to apologize for what I’ve
done, for the damaged I’ve caused, but my words would mean nothing. Just
empty sentiments from a soulless butcher. So instead, I say nothing,
soundlessly returning my khopesh to its sheath. I refuse to engage this boy
in a fight he won’t win, but I can’t simply walk away.
Jakobian would be furious if he caught wind that his Ker had gone
soft.
Before the boy has any inkling of what’s to come, I snatch the knife
from his grasp, twisting, affectively breaking the joint at the wrist. I stab the
knife into the nearest table and seize the mug from his other hand,
subsequently ramming him in the face with it. He doubles over, blood
gushing from his nose into the palm of his hand.
“Come at me again and I’ll break a lot more than a wrist,” I warn,
stepping over him as I head towards the exit. Not a soul dares block my
path as I yank my coat from the hook, retreating out into the chilling
darkness.
Outside, the night has frozen, the moon maintaining its steady
course across the sky. The alley is empty, the crowd having dispersed since
we arrived. I’m flushed from the exchange, the cool breeze a relief against
the beads of sweat pooling on my skin. I hear the door to Salome’s open
behind me followed by a man’s rough tread.
“You alright Peia?” Alek.
“I’m fine.” I try keeping my voice steady, conclusive, but even I
hear the falsehood of my words. “I’m just going to head back.” Setting off
towards the Ruin, I don’t make it two steps before he catches my arm,
compelling me to face him.
“I’ll walk back with you.”
I can’t even meet his eyes. “No, stay. I’d rather walk alone.”
“Peia…”
“Alek please. I’ll see you tomorrow.” My words quell any notion he
may’ve had about spending the night in my chamber. I’m not in the mood
for company, something should Alek understand.
I take off towards the Ruin, eager for the intimacy of the woods.
I’m halfway there when I hear the steps behind me. I’d recognize this
steady tread anywhere considering how many mornings I’ve listened for it
following behind me.
Roman doesn’t utter a word when he reaches me, instead simply
falling into step at my side. We continue the rest of the way in silence.
Roman’s the first to speak as we reach the Ruin grounds.
“Hypatia,” he calls, halting me dead. There’s not a single soul left
on this earth, save for Iren, that calls me by my given name. Hell, I wasn’t
entirely sure he even knew what it was. “The marks don’t define you,
Hypatia. We’re more than just our ink. Never forget that.”
Leave it to my CO, my surly, cranky, solemn CO, to know exactly
what to say. I’m grateful for his words, moved by this small show of
humanity, I almost lose my resolve entirely. I’m relieved when he heads
inside first, leaving me to pull myself together under the watchful eye of the
moon.

CHAPTER 8
I wake the next morning exhausted, having spent most of the night tossing
about. Even without any late-night visitors keeping me awake, I couldn’t
have managed more than an hour or two of sleep at the most. The fatigue is
draining as I attempt my climb out of the Pit, but the excitement of
spending tonight with my sister keeps my muscles moving.
Roman isn’t at our usual spot this morning. He must be off
preparing for the Trek. I could skip the run altogether and he’d be none the
wiser, but the thought of a vacant trail is too appealing to pass up.
The morning is unusually warm, the sunshine finding its path
through a fissure in lingering clouds. Helios must be eager for the Trek as
well, allowing such a morning. Since I’m running the trail unchallenged, I
decide on a leisurely pace. It doesn’t take long for my sleepless night to
catch up with me. I feel as though I’m running through water, my body
expended from the effort but not making any progress. The sensation is
alarming, the feeling of moving in a perpetual state of slow motion. I push
myself harder, force my body up the mountain path.
After what feels like a time without end, I reach the summit.
The sky is clear, the view of the valley vibrant and thriving from
where I stand. I plant my feet at the ledge of the precipice, spreading my
arms out wide. I imagine my life with wings, my life as the Caucasian
Eagle of ancient myth, able to drop right of the edge only to catch myself
on gilded wings. To have the freedom of the skies above with nothing
anchoring me to this earth. It’s a dangerous fantasy, a selfish one I instantly
regret.
I decide it’s time to head back and leave the childish dreams
behind.
Back at the Ruin, the grounds are teeming with soldiers milling
about preparing for tomorrow. The mess hall is packed, the electricity in the
air invigorating my drained state. Alek is waiting for me at our usual table,
guarding a tray filled to the brim with slices of sweet nectar loaf, the true
food of the gods. The dish is a rare treat in the Ruin, only prepared for
special occasions, made from the freshest of grains, smothered in a
saccharinely sticky nectar. It’s decadent, delicious to the point of obsession,
so much so that I’d do just about anything to get my hands on some. Alek
knows this, his playful grin an obvious giveaway. I sit down, reaching my
paws across the table, but he’s quick, snatching the tray into the air and out
of reach.
“Alek, give it to me,” I practically shout, reaching for the dish.
“Pei, we’re in public,” he chastises, “Save that talk for the privacy
of your chamber.” I’m about half a second from stabbing his eye out when
he finally relents, handing over my precious contraband. I bring the tray to
my noise, inhaling deeply, the savory aroma invading my senses, producing
the most ludicrous of smiles. “You’d think it was enchanted the way you’re
losing your mind over it.” His comment earns him a favored hand
gesture.
I take an exceptionally long time finishing my breakfast,
indulging in my fair share of the pile. I’m so full by the time training starts,
Alek warns he might have to carry me up to the Loft.
Arriving in the chamber, the soldiers are in disarray, wild, the
energy from the mess hall having possessed the wolves of the Dire. Roman
isn’t up here either. It isn’t clear why I seem to be looking for him or why
his absence is so disappointing, but it’s far too early in the day to go
searching for that answer.
Once again, the skeleton passing as a living being is our
assignment commander, announcing our pairings for the day with as much
enthusiasm as one would when describing the symptoms of a particularly
revolting infection. I’m paired with Creon, another of the few Dire who
isn’t sickened to be within five feet of me. We’re about to start, having
chosen a katana apiece, when Alek saunters over, murmuring something to
Creon. After a casual shrug, Creon wanders off towards one of the other
soldiers.
“You just can’t seem to keep your distance.” His shrug
confirmation enough.
We head out onto the ledge to begin our “fighting,” though it’s
really more of a laughing fit. We’re careful to mock fight whenever Sare
comes near even though he, too, seems indifferent to the day’s agenda. Just
another victim of the Trek fanaticism.
I’m still laughing when training is called, Alek having done an
incredibly authentic Bastien imitation. Since we’re the last to arrive inside, I
don’t realize my name has been read until I notice the rest of the room
staring in my direction.
“Peia!” Sare yells, though unnecessary. You could hear a pin
drop; the room is so quiet. “Arena. Now!”
Gods dammit.
Our last night in Krua and I’m selected for the Trial. I’m going to
be dining with my sister in a few short hours and all the while she’s going
to be worrying about my new injuries.
“Don’t be nervous, Pei,” my Alala says, “just get in there and finish
it quickly.” His tone is stern, demanding, so unlike the playful Alek from a
few moments ago. I offer a curt nod of understanding. With a last reassuring
grin, he heads off to watch from the front of the arena.
Despite Alek’s encouraging words, I’m nervous, my palms sweaty
with unease. I don’t know what I’m walking into, my opponent having been
called prior, but I’m silently praying to the winds that it isn’t Bastien.
It isn’t the fight itself that worries me. I’m confident in my fighting
abilities, my skills in battle, but it isn’t just my own life at stake in that
arena. The only reason Jakobian keeps my sister out of harm’s way is
because of me, because I continue to do his bidding without question, carry
out his will without fail. The moment I cease to be useful, I won’t be the
only one who suffers.
When I see who the lucky bastard is I actual smile, a wicked thing
that surely resembles a depraved siren, her sights set on some poor
unsuspecting vessel. Old Scabby is the one who awaits me, standing poised
for barbarity in the middle of the arena. Should the gods still walk among us
I might kneel at their feet for the small blessing. He’s a piss-poor adversary
who’s never won a single Trial and after the altercation at Salome’s last
night, I’m out for blood.
I take the steps two at a time, eager for the Trial to commence. I
don’t acknowledge the clamor around me, the crowd thirsting for my blood.
There’s no time for distractions, no room for mistakes. I keep my eyes
trained solely on the beastly man opposite me. He’s selected one of the long
blades as his steel of choice, the uchigatana, an elegant weapon that’s better
suited for the Loft’s walls than in the hands of such an unworthy warrior.
It’s curved slightly near the point, with a small gap missing along the blades
center. I’ve never yielded the weapon myself, it’s far too long for my
comfort, but it’s an impressive sight.
His stance is aggressive, his eyes focused, a visceral rage burning
just beneath the surface begging to be unleashed. He needs this as gravely
as I do, maybe even more so, but it doesn’t matter. I’m here for one purpose
and it isn’t defeat. I’m readying my own stance when I hear my name called
from behind. I turn to find Roman walking towards me, my arm cuffs held
firmly in his grasp. I’m anticipating a reprimand for discarding them.
“You can’t let him disarm you, Peia. He’ll be looking to go hand-
to-hand and if that happens, he’ll demolish you at close range.” His tone is
fierce with resolve. Expecting him to stalk off, I’m surprised when he
lingers as if needing to add more. When it becomes obvious he’s decided
against it, I pull up my cuffs and prepare to face Scabs.
I don’t waste a single breath, unsheathing my blade as I draw near,
forcing him to do the same or risk fighting me unarmed. Leaving no
moment wasted, I rush him, catching him off guard. He blocks easily
enough but it’s clear this wasn’t his strategy. I continue my assault, my
blade met strike for strike. His blocks are solid, but his jabs are slow.
Roman’s right, his most advantageous strategy would be to engage me in
hand to hand considering he’s got about two hundred pounds and a full foot
on me.
I can’t let that happen.
 The fight draws on, our assault continuing with full force on each
end. It feels an eternity has passed with no culmination in sight. After I’m
forced to strengthen my block using my cuff against a particularly powerful
strike, I decide it’s time to finish him. I visualize my strategy, the plan of
attack unfolding clear as day in my mind’s eye. I weaken my blocks,
shuffling backwards towards the wall. I want him to believe he’s winning,
to believe each strike of his blade edges him closer victory. I need his
perfect blow, one that encompasses every inch of his remaining strength. I
can sense it draw near, the signs apparent- his blade gripped tightly between
both palms, his knuckles white as the mountain hail, his arms raised as high
as his muscles will allow. He’s gearing for the end, eager to finish this, but
so am I.
When the final blow comes, the entirety of his strength supporting
the strike, I make my move. My stance is firm, my feet steady, as I block
his assault and reach for the blade over my right soldier. With a swift
metallic flick, my second blade is exposed and ready, eager for a turn. Its
hilt aligns seamlessly to the curvature of my palm, an extension of my very
being. His right thigh is exposed, vulnerable, and the perfect destination for
my newly unleashed blade.
The strike is vicious, blood spurring from the newly sliced flesh.
His sword falters as he stumbles backward, his empty hand flying to the
wound. I use this to my advantage, quickly slicing through his sword arm at
the bicep. He roars out in pain as the sword clatters to the ground. I sheathe
my blades, delivering a roundhouse kick to his leg wound that brings him to
his knees. The Trial is over, the victory clear, but I don’t halt. My leg
continues its attack, landing kick after kick on any exposed area, until he’s
curled over in agony, his arms wrapped securely around his middle in a
feeble attempt to protect against my delirious assault. I finally stop when I
notice the blood dribbling from his mouth and nose, slowly pooling around
his face, saturating the floor beneath him.
I don’t wait around for the victor to be named. It’s clear what I’ve
done, the damage I’ve inflicted. Stomping down the arena steps, I leave the
remnants of a soldier behind me. I’m eager to be rid of this place and back
on solid ground, but I keep my pace steady, force my feet to move at a
relaxed stride. I keep my head held high as I travel down the parted sea of
soldiers all glaring daggers in my wake. I don’t meet the gaze of my fellow
Dire, instead keeping my eyes trained straight ahead towards my escape. I
can hear the single pair of footsteps following close behind me, but I don’t
stop, knowing very well who they belong to. I’m certain he’ll have plenty to
say about the Trial but now isn’t the time. He waits until we’ve reached the
deserted eighth floor landing to speak his mind.
“What the fuck was that?” I turn to find Roman at my heels, his
face contorted in fury.
“What?” I expected a lecture, not this degree of rage.
“You left him a bloody pulp on the arena floor.”
“I needed to win.”
“Not like that. You could’ve easily beaten him without that grisly
display upstairs.”
“Unbelievable!” I yell, my own anger getting the better of me. The
landing is crowded now, with most of the soldiers heading down for lunch.
We have an audience, but I continue my outburst. “Are you really lecturing
me? So quick to forget your own Trial yesterday, are you? And yet you
expected me to go easy on him, to fight soft?”
“I expected you to fight smart, Peia,” he hisses, tugging me off to
the side. “You didn’t just beat him up there. You shamed him in front of the
entire Dire. He won’t just let that slide.” Obviously missing the point, my
face a concoction of confusion and exasperation, he continues, “You’ve
added yet another target to your back atop an already mounting pile.” His
tone is clipped, defeated. I interpret this as a dismissal, turning away from
him without so much as a backward glance. I fly down the stairwell,
determined to put as much distance between us as possible.
Infuriating bastard.
Had I lost, he would’ve been furious. Had I let up, he would’ve
accused me of being soft. My internal tirade of loathing against my CO is
loud, distracting, so much so I almost miss the familiar voice beckoning me
near the mess hall entrance.
“Lover’s quarrel?” Evidently, Alek was present during our little
hallway disagreement. His tone is light, teasing, accompanied by a striking
smile, but his eyes betray him. A look of worry darkens his naturally bright
demeanor.
“Piss off.” I counter, inducing a laugh. “He thinks I was excessively
brutal. That now Scabs will likely be on the war path. Can you believe
that?” When he fails to agree, or join in on my Roman bashing, I whip my
gaze his direction. He averts my stare, his face uncharacteristically
sheepish. “You agree with him?”
Fucking traitor.
To the depths of Tartarus with them both.
“As much as I hate to admit it, Roman has a point.” At least my
Alala has the good sense to look contrite. “For the past few months, you’ve
flown under the radar. Even Bastien hasn’t tried killing you for a while.
What happened today, that changes things, Pei. Jakobian will catch wind of
it and there’s no way he’ll allow Scabs to keep his ranking. He’ll be aiming
for a reckoning, and you can bet he won’t be alone.”
I mull over his words as we take our usual seats for lunch. “Let
them try. They’ve never beaten me before.” Even I don’t miss the arrogance
in those words. I don’t mind admitting when I’m wrong, but I despise
nothing more than having to acknowledge when Roman’s right.
“There’s other ways they can hurt you Peia, without ever laying a
hand on you.”
Iren.
Instantly, the shame of not realizing this sooner reigns down upon
me. I’d been so busy worrying about Jakobian, I overlooked the other
threats lurking about Krua.
Before my arrival, Jakobian made it a point of concealing my
sisters’ survival from the other Betas by declaring me the sole living
descendant of the late Beta Madaeus. Even so, that didn’t stop Bastien from
finding out the truth and using her as the focus of his threats. The thought of
him hurting her as vengeance against me makes me physically nauseous,
my stomach on the verge of retching.
“I have to go,” I say, rising from the table.
“Where are you going?” Alek demands.
“I need to find Roman.”
“You haven’t even eaten anything yet.”
“Not hungry,” I reply, my mind fixated elsewhere, my feet already
carrying me towards the door.
“Wretched liar, you’re always hungry!” he shouts from our table,
his voice already a distant sound as I reach the threshold. I need to talk to
Roman about Iren, make sure she’s safe. No matter how pissed he may be at
me, I know he’d never let my sister come to any harm.
 CHAPTER 9
Though I spend the entire lunch hour searching, I have zero luck locating
Roman. He wasn’t in the mess hall or the courtyard. I even checked his
personal quarters, which is strictly off limits, but it was completely
deserted. I’m intent on finding him and lose track of time, returning to the
Loft twenty minutes late. Luckily, Sare is too preoccupied reprimanding
Mahail on his abysmal posture to notice my tardiness.
The rest of training is uneventful, my malicious display in the
Trial having long been forgotten. The lives of the Dire are so strongly
rooted in death and destruction, a little blood shed doesn’t even faze them.
And as much as I hate to admit it, I find myself becoming desensitized to
the violence around me as well. It’s moments like these when I miss my
sister the most, when I need to see her beautiful face, bask in the warmth of
her radiant smile to ensure I don’t forget there’s still light left in the world.
When we’re dismissed for the day, my feet can’t seem to carry me
down fast enough as I rush back to the Pit. I quickly wash and suit back up,
slinging my sheath back into place. I prefer not bringing the blades along on
my nights with Iren, but our meeting place is on the far side of Crysax near
the port and I’m never sure who I’ll run into. I’m eager to be off, practically
tackling Alek on my way out the door.
“Where’s the fire?” he asks, stumbling backwards.
“Sorry, I was just leaving,” I say, continuing down the hall.
“Bit early, isn’t it?”
“I’m meeting Efimia first. She said she had something special for
me.” Efimia is one of the Ruin cooks. She’s a few years older than I and
grew up inside the Ruin walls. Her mother worked in the kitchen until her
death, with Efimia taking her place afterward. We met shortly after my
arrival when I defended her against one of Bastien’s unwelcomed advances.
She, too, knows of Iren’s existence, having overheard Bastien’s raving
threats. Since then, once a week I visit her to pick up the treats she makes
specially for my sister.
“What’s on the menu tonight?” he asks, his tone hopeful. Alek is
just as infatuated with Efimia’s baking as Iren.
“She didn’t say. I’m hoping it’s the yellow tarts, the ones with the
coconut shavings.” My mouth waters at the thought. I guess Alek isn’t the
only one with an obsession.
“I’d kill for some of her berry custard. Might even get an ink of
one of them right over here,” he says, gently tapping the space on my chest
above my heart. The touch tickles, producing an awkward childlike giggle
that I pray he doesn’t hear.
Alek’s always had a very macabre sense of humor, constantly
joking about ghastly murders in intricate detail, but it’s grown on me. We
continue our guessing until we catch sight of the kitchen entrance, the warm
buttery scent of spice and pumpkin escaping beneath the threshold,
confirming Alek’s prediction.
“What did I tell you?” Alek beams, planting a light peck upon my
cheek. “Pumpkin buns.”
“Lucky guess.”
“No luck involved. Tell me Peia, how does it feel to be in the
presence of greatness?”
“I have yet to find out,” I say, pushing through the kitchen doors.
The inviting scent from the hallway is nothing compared to the
overwhelming aroma that awaits us inside. The smell, a mixture of fresh
pumpkin and Efimia’s special spice blend, is intoxicating.
“You’re early,” she cries, her voice strained with panic. “The last
batch has yet to cool properly.” Efimia has really outdone herself this time.
With mounds of the sweet confections lining the countertops, she begins
piling the finished buns into a large basket.
“Feeding an army, are you?”
“Considering its you and Iren, this might not be enough actually,”
Alek chimes, quickly devouring one of the cooling buns. “Ah, hot.” His full
mouth burning from the warm treat.
“Serves you right,” I chide with a laugh.
“I wanted you to have extra to leave with Iren,” Efimia answers,
“and some for the road.” Her voice falters near the end as if it pains her to
acknowledge are approaching departure. She casts a fleeting glace in Alek’s
direction before continuing with her packing.
“Thank you, Eff.” I tenderly pull her to me. She’s clearly startled
by the embrace but soon recovers, firmly encircling her arms around my
middle. “Iren’s going to love them, pumpkin is her favorite.” When I
release her, I find her eyes glossy, visibly shaken by my sudden display of
affection. She bashfully turns back to her preparations, so I don’t mention
it.
The Trek won’t last longer than a couple of weeks, the entire
excursion completed in just over a month, yet, as she stands here preparing
her farewells, I can’t help but fear this may be the last time I ever see her.
The realization hits me like a punch to the gut and I’m thankful it’s she who
embraces me this time. I’m not sure I would’ve been able to move.
“Be safe, sweet girl,” she whispers into my hair, “and beware the
beasts of Lyca.” With this she thrusts the overflowing basket into my arms,
quickly retreating farther into the safety of her kitchen without another
glance. Alek starts to leave, heading in the direction of the foyer, but I tug
his arm, urging him to wait.
Usually, Alek walks with me to meet Iren, the two of us joking
and bickering the entire way. The walk is long, and I enjoy the company,
plus Iren gets to ogle Alek. She’s had a crush on him since the day they met,
but that’s no surprise, the incessant flirt that he is. He’s always been a good
sport about it, turning on the charm whenever she’s near, but tonight he
should spend his time here. I’m not the only one leaving Efimia behind in
the morning.
“Stay,” I tell him. “Hang out here tonight. I’ll tell Iren you’re
sorry you missed her.” I reach to give him a reassuring hug then rush down
the hall. Though Efimia isn’t one of Alek’s conquests, I sense there could be
something more between them.
The night is still young as I travel across Crysax, the icy breeze a
comfort against my own warm skin. The streets are crowded with drunkards
noisily anticipating the oncoming festival. More than once, I’m forced to
swerve out of the way with my basket to avoid being doused in the sticky
auburn liquid.
The High Den, Iren’s home since setting foot in Krua, is located on
the far side of town near the port. It’s the elaborate dwelling of Niobe
Nysaean, Jakobian’s Second and Roman’s mother. She’s a nasty piece of
work, worse than her husband in my opinion, but she’s always taken care of
my sister. That means killing her is out of the question, unfortunately.
The walk to the Den is long but I make it there in record time. I
guess I never realized how time-consuming bickering with Alek can be. The
High Den is completely enclosed by a monstrous wall of shadows, the dark
stone reaching clear into the sky. The perimeter is defended around the
clock by the Second’s personal guard. Attempting to infiltrate the grounds is
impossible, an absolute nightmare of task.
Believe me, I’ve tried.
The guards at the gate let me pass without so much as a word, my
presence a common enough occurrence. From outside the walls, the Den
more closely resembles a prison than a grand palace but stepping through
the gateway is like entering another realm.
The path leading to the main entrance is illuminated by blazing
torches and paved in a smooth taupe marble. The seal of Krua is embedded
at its center, the sigil made of pure gold. Large golden wolf tracks adorn the
path the entire length of the way. The design is intricate, elaborate, and
absolutely ridiculous.
It’s a floor for gods’ sake, not some sacred temple.
Bordering the path on either side is an overgrown patch of aconite.
Wolf’s bane. Why Niobe would choose the queen of all poisons for her
garden is beyond me, the smell alone should be reason enough to get rid of
it.
She probably adds some to her guests’ wine just for laughs.
My hands are sweating as I reach the palace steps, my breathing
fast and uneven. I’m nervous, overly excited about seeing my sister. The
palace foyer is empty, the casted shadows my only companions. I choose
the hallway directly to my left, the fastest route to the main stairwell. I take
the stairs two at a time until I reach the third-floor landing, then head east
towards the Hall of Feasts.
The Hall is a mammoth of a room, encompassing the entire third
floor. It’s the site of balls, banquets, the occasional wedding. Any event of
importance is held within its walls. Iren and I don’t always meet here but
with the Trek so close, the room is entirely vacant and perfect for our
purposes.
When I finally reach the Hall doors, my euphoric mood is soon
exchanged for blind paralyzing fear. I’m accustomed to being greeted
outside the Hall by Thaos, my sister’s guard, so when I see two other
sentinels patrolling alongside him, an uncontrollable wave of panic crashes
over me.
“What’s going on?” My alarm apparent. “Where’s Iren?”
“Relax Peia, everything’s fine. Iren’s waiting for you inside.” Thaos
keeps his tone calm, reassuring. “Roman stopped by earlier and asked for
the extra guards, said I should be on alert. He handpicked them both.”
 So, this is where Roman disappeared to.
I ignore the elated warmth spreading through my chest as I picture
my CO rushing here, residence of the mother he despises, to ensure my
sister’s well-being.
“Stop worrying so much young wolf, you’re starting to resemble a
Gorgon,” he jokes, offering me a dimpled smile. After watching his form
fade as he starts down the stairwell, thankful a man such as him was chosen
to guard my sister, I thrust open the massive doors.
Sprawled out across the far table, her feet hitched up atop
Jakobian’s throne, lies my beautiful sister. I can’t see her face, the top of her
head facing the entryway, but she stirs the moment I shut the door behind
me. My legs fly as I sprint towards her, the limbs designed solely to find
her, my basket forgotten by the door. The room is vast, but we close the
distance in a matter of seconds. I fling my arms around her, burying my
face in her chest. I’m four years her senior and still, she’s somehow
managed to outgrow me.
“Gods, I’ve missed you,” I tell her. “How are you? Any problems
with Lamia?” The demonic queen who eats children. Title seems fitting.
Instantly, as if she’d been slapped, I feel her tense up in my arms.
Fearing the worse, I take a step back to get a better look at her. As I inspect
every inch of her, my gaze immediately snaps to her face. The entire right
side, from hairline to chin, is purple, the whole area a swollen mess. My
rage is ruthless, a living being of unrelenting fury. “What the hell is this?”
My hands reach for her face, but I think better of it. I don’t know how much
pain she might be in. “Was this her?” I ask, referring to Niobe. I relish the
idea of burning this palace to the ground, leaving her buried beneath the
rubble.
“No, it wasn’t her,” she says, eyes to the floor.
“Who?” I tilt her chin upward, forcing her to meet my gaze. “Iren?”
“Some drunken village boy,” her voice is soft, timid. “It looks
worse than it is. He only got in one good blow before I stopped him.”
“What’s his name?” My tone is merciless, my intentions
exceptionally heartless.
“You’re not killing him, Peia,” she says, her tone just as harsh.
“Name.”
“Hypatia, drop it,” she commands. The use of my given name
stops me dead. I can’t help but gape at her, wondering where my little sister
went.
Apart from her height, her form has also filled out, her limbs thick
with muscle. Even her gaze is tougher, stronger. The being in front of me is
no longer the sweet, innocent girl who used to build mud cakes by the
riverbed while I braided her hair, the once long golden locks now cut just
above the shoulder. She’s a strong, beautiful young woman who was forced
to grow up too soon. The guilt at not having been there is almost my
undoing, but my rage wins out. One single night a week, that’s all I’ve been
allowed to witness my sister’s transformation.
I can’t wait to kill Jakobian, tear him to pieces then feed him to his
own wolves.
My sister’s voice interrupts my murderous fantasy. “Do you want to
stand around here the entire time or can I try and kick your ass.”
Her vulgarity makes me snicker, the sound diluting the tension
clogging the room. “Try, being the operative word,” I tell her, readying my
stance on the ball floor. She takes her place opposite of me and we begin
our sparring.
Since our first night together in Krua, I forced her to spar with me. I
wouldn’t take no for an answer, pushing her until the moves became second
nature. We would go round after round until our bodies were aching, our
limbs beseeching for reprieve, not able to continue any longer. My intention
was for her to be able to defend herself, that way when the inevitable
happened, she wouldn’t be completely defenseless.
At the start she was timid, frightened of getting hurt. She would shy
away from my advances rather than face me head on. But tonight, she’s all
fire as she meets me strike for strike, kick for kick. Her moves are fluid,
confident. It’s the highest of blessings to know my sister has a chance of
surviving on her own.
We continue until we’re an exhausted heap of sweaty limbs on the
ballroom floor. We relax into a comfortable position with our gaze facing
the ceiling and our limbs stretched out wide. I take one of her hands in
mine, gripping it like my salvation, a tether securing me to the land of the
living while the souls of my dead attempt to rip me apart.
“Where’s Alektus?” she asks, swooning over his name.
“Sorry to disappoint but Alektus stayed behind,” I say, mimicking
her swoon. “Shall I send him instead, next time? Allow you two some
privacy?” Her responding giggle is silly, childlike. “He sends his best, but I
wanted you all to myself tonight.” I reach over, flicking her in the nose.
Giggling, she swats my hand away. Stretching out, I move to retrieve our
treats, distributing the sweet parcels between the two of us.
“You two should get married,” she says in between giggles and
bites of sugar. And just like that, my young woman of a sister regresses to
the innocent girl I know and love, with her naïve ideas about marriage and
pure beliefs of love. I’m grateful the horrors of our world have yet to
corrupt her hope or her optimism about the future.
“I think I’ll pass on that one,” I snort. “How’s it going in the
shop?”
Iren’s been apprenticing under Madam Basilia, the Kruan herbalist
who specializes in elixirs. Since she was a child, Iren’s been fascinated by
the different florae. She used to spend her evenings in Nymphai dozing out
in the gardens. On more than one occasion I almost stumbled over her
among the morning dew.
When Iren first arrived in Krua she started out working in the Den
kitchen, but after a little mishap with Jakobian’s supper, she was
repositioned. When I asked her where she found the poison she added to his
stew, she replied there was no poison, only a rat tail she’d found in the
basement. I was hunched over in tears; I’d never laughed so hard.
“Wonderful,” she answers, flipping onto her stomach. I do the same
so we’re lying face to face. “Madam Basilia is remarkable, her nose for
blends is unequaled. She even let me create my own balm yesterday
afternoon. She says I’m exceptionally gifted with creams.” There’s no
mistaking the pride in her voice. I, too, am in awe of her talent, delighted
that after everything she’s been through, she’s still managed to attain a
considerable amount of bliss.
In truth, that’s all I’ve ever desired for
her.
“Maybe I’ll sneak by the shop sometime after we return, see for
myself what all the fuss is about,” I tell her enthusiastically. I expect
excitement on her part at the idea of showing off her accomplishments, yet
the look in her eyes is one of pure sorrow, a thick cloud of solemn dimming
the luster present only moments ago. She quickly turns her gaze back
towards the ceiling.
“I’m not sure how long I’ll be with the Madam. She’s leaving Krua
in the upcoming weeks.”
 “What do you mean leaving Krua? Where will she go?”
“She’s heading across the Dark Sea, to the Free Isles. She wants to
open her own boutique.” Her voice is cheery, jubilant, but I recognize the
underscoring sadness of her words. Iren’s mentor is leaving, abandoning her
while taking her sole source of joy with her. There isn’t another herbalist in
Krua, and I doubt Jakobian would care enough to recruit one. “She thinks
I’d make a respectable herbalist, maybe open my own shop at some point,”
she adds, her tone hopeful. We both know that’s a distant dream, a fantasy
for idle minds.
Maybe all hope isn’t lost just yet.
“Did she want you to accompany her?” I ask, sitting up.
“Peia…” she starts, but I quickly cut her off. I already know what’s
she going to say but that won’t answer my question.
“Iren, would she take you with her?” I tug at her arm urging her to
sit up. After a short pause, she finally relents.
“Yes, she wanted me to go with her,” she says, the faintest flicker
of hope striking her eyes. “But she understands my circumstances.” She
offers me a reassuring smile, one I’m too busy scheming to acknowledge.
My mind runs through every scenario, every possibility until I’m giddy
with excitement.
“What if you could go?” I tell her, gripping her by the arms.
“Leave Krua, travel across the high seas, brew elixirs in the Free Isles miles
away from here.” I’m practically hysterical with glee.
“No,” she says, her voice stern, adamant. “I’d never leave without
you.”
“Or I without you but listen to me. If you leave now, I could find
my way back to you. It’ll be much easier escaping Jakobian on my own if
you’re already free of here.” She looks skeptical, my words failing to
convince her. “If I can find a way to get you out of here and promise to
meet you someday, would you take it? Leave with Basilia?”
“Never,” she answers, her eyes set, unyielding. “Not without
you.”
“Iren,” I demand, “I swear in the name of Nymphai that I will
return to you, but until then you must do this for me. My beautiful sister,
you deserve a better life than that of a captive.” Her expression waivers and
I know at once I’ve got her.
“Jakobian would never allow it.”
 “Leave Jakobian to me,” I urge, “I’ll see to it that he agrees.”
Even if the task sends me down the River Styx.
“Can you imagine?” she’s asks. “We can own a small cottage that
doubles as my shop. I’ll brew elixirs all day while you- What will you do?”
Partake in a murderous rampage or two.
I keep that thought to myself knowing Iren wouldn’t appreciate my
grisly joke. I guess Alek isn’t the only one with a taste for the ghastly.
“Whatever I please,” I tell her instead. A knock at the door demands
our attention, our heads turning in unison.
“It’s time,” Thaos calls from the doorway. Considering he always
allows us longer than our allotted stretch, we really must’ve lost track of the
time tonight. Not wishing to jeopardize Thaos’ good favor, I immediately
rise, pulling Iren along with me. As soon as we’re standing her arms lock in
place around me.
“Hypatia.” she whispers, panicked. Her breathing is rushed, ragged.
Her actions mirror my own sentiments, yet words fail me. I cannot fathom,
let alone address, the idea that this may be our last engagement, the last
time I ever lay eyes on the felicity that is my baby sister.
I crush her to me, holding her for a few moments longer, before
bringing her face between my palms, forcing her gaze downward. “I will be
back little one and when I am, we’ll be free of this wretched land. That I
promise you.” I can feel the tears pooling, bubbling over the rims, but I let
them fall, let them stream down my cheeks. “I love you. Be safe and stay
near Thaos. I don’t need you stirring up trouble while I’m away,” I say,
flicking her nose a second time. She giggles, a forced sound for my benefit
no doubt, but it does little to ease my worry. I quickly turn and stalk
towards the door.
I can’t afford to come undone.
As I take my first step into to the hall, Thaos halts me with a hand.
“The name’s Faegen. He’s a fisherman’s boy down by the south docks.
Trades in eel.” He gives me a pointed look. “Ginger, lanky. Looks a bit like
a gecko. I would’ve taken care of him myself, but I thought you’d enjoy the
task.” I knew Thaos would’ve been as pissed off as I was by the damage
done to Iren’s face.
“Thank you, I’ll take care of it,” I vow. “Look after her while I’m
away.”
“As I would my own,” he vows in return. I offer him my thanks,
setting off without a backward glance.
Making my way through to the Den gates, I think back to Roman
and Thaos and their concern for Iren. The relief of knowing I’m not the sole
being left on this earth preoccupied with my sister’s wellbeing washes over
me in waves, dissipating a small portion of the mass of fear I continuously
carry. It’s not completely eradicated, but it’s no longer smothering me
either. I feel renewed, hopeful, a sensation I thought abandoned me long
ago.
As I journey through Crysax, it’s safe to assume I take a little
detour on my route back to the Ruin. Instead of heading back towards the
mountain road, I veer south, heading towards the southern docks. It’s late,
the sun only a few hours off, yet the village square is still lively. I’m hoping
the docks are lonesome, but a crowd won’t stop me either way. When I
reach the south end entrance, I see my wish has been granted. Just ahead of
me, walking in my direction, is a group of four young men. They’re all of
similar height and build, except one. I recognize my mark instantly, his
howl of laughter offensive to the ears. His companions respond in low
slurred voices.
This will be easier than I’d hoped.
The dock is poorly lit, the lanterns sparse and far between. I’ve
situated my blades so they’re concealed nicely at my back. Most citizens in
Crysax have little use for weapons so majority venture unarmed, but these
four look like they could be hiding steel.
I can sense the predators lurking within being unchained as they
take notice of my presence, their malicious looks confirmation enough. I
have no doubts about these men. Their intentions are clear as they give me a
once over, galvanizing my need for retribution. They see nothing more than
object to enjoy as they please, but little do they know what they’re in for.
The thought is elating, my palms twitching with anticipation of that first
blow. My soul hums as my new favorite is the first to address me.
“What’ve we got here?” His words slurred, suggestive. I attempt to
keep my distance, hoping my blades and ink don’t give me away. “What’s
your name love?” he asks, the last word a promise of anything but.
“Peia,” I reply, my tone a low, nervous whimper.
“Peia.” My name a hint at what’s to come. Though certainly trying
to be slick about it, I immediately take notice of their movements. Faegan
and another golden-haired male are fully blocking my path while their two
companions are creeping their way behind me. Not chancing the risk of
scaring them off, I make my move, ambushing the fools at my back first.
Unsheathing my right blade in one fluid movement, I slash at the
man at my right, searing the flesh at the thigh. The wound is shallow, but
substantial enough to keep him down. My next swing takes out the other
one with a gash to the ribs. With two down I turn to my attention to the
bastards before me. The look of pure shock plastered across Faegan’s face
is so satisfying I smile, a sordid image that could put the sight of Medusa to
shame.
Mustering up some sense of courage, Faegan’s companion rushes
me. It’s an admiral attempt, but ultimately futile, for I am no being of
mercy. I was breed for destruction, reared for death, and damage is what
I’m here to inflict.
I deflect a blow to the face, bringing my free blade across the
extended arm. I land a kick to his chest, the strike sending him tumbling
backward, then face off against my true mark. The weakling is cowering,
his feet shuffling backwards down the docks. I anticipate his retreat,
watching his form run down the path. I retrieve the dagger in my boot,
sending it soaring towards him. The execution is seamless, the blade
embedding into the rear of his calf.
I slowly slink towards him, letting his anxiety build. I follow the
thin stream of blood until I reach the blubbering fool attempting to crawl
away. I unsheathe my second blade, bringing them crossed at the top of his
spine.
“Turn around,” I command, my previous whimper replaced with
uncontained wrath.
“Wait, please,” he begs, his eyes wide in terror.
“Do you know who I am?” I answer his silence by hitching up one
sleeve, exposing the ink on my arm. The fear that envelops him is evident, a
tangible being paralyzing him in place. “I’ve heard you enjoy smacking
around the girls of Krua. Jakobian instructed I return the favor.” The
mention of the Beta’s name elicits my intended reaction, the tears flowing
freely down his cheeks.
“Please,” he sobs. Unable to endure the sight any longer, I slam the
hilt of my blade on the bridge of his nose. His subsequent screams pierce
through the night, muffling the sounds of splintering bone.
“If I ever catch wind that you laid a hand on another girl of Krua,
our next encounter won’t end so pleasantly,” I say forcing his gaze upward
with the point of my blade. “Do not test me. You have no idea the pleasure
it would bring to feed your flesh to the eels.”
With that, I kick him right off the dock into the dark water below.
Satisfied, I take my leave sheathing my blades as I go. My smile is trivial,
subtle, the satisfaction of my success accompanying me back to the Ruin. I
never intended to kill him, refusing to add unnecessary souls to my tally,
but I don’t deceive myself into believing my actions were noble. I inflicted
pain for personal pleasure, a selfish reprisal for his atrocious deed.
Jakobian may have forged the Ker of Krua, but I won’t deny I, too,
have a hand in making certain she remains.

CHAPTER 10
I return to my Pit eager for a warm bath, the adrenaline from my errand
having worn off on the walk back leaving a hollow feeling in its place. My
thoughts are a bit jumbled, my mind consumed by illusions of Iren and I
existing beyond this land of death and ink, that it takes me a moment to
notice the body sprawled across my bed.
“What are you doing here?” My tone comes out harsher than
planned.
“Good evening to you as well, Pei,” he says leaning against the
bedpost, his fingers interlaced behind his head. I stomp towards the
wardrobe, shedding my blades as I go. Alek has already ignited the hearth,
the room now unbearably warm. Fearing I may be suffocating beneath my
thick layers, I remove my coat as he continues, “I just couldn’t stomach the
idea of sleeping apart.” My response is a snort, the attractive sound
accompanied by a wadded-up tunic thrown over my shoulder.
“I was with Iren,” I explain, shrugging out of my wool
sweater.
“You should’ve been back hours ago. Where the hell were you?”
“I’m sorry, are you my keeper now?” I ask, the words tinted in
annoyance.
“God’s no, just worried. Thought old Scabby might’ve finished
you off.” I take a seat at the edge of the bed, slowly unlacing my boots.
“Guess I’m not that easy to get rid of.”
“What’s going on?” Alek asks concerned. “Why’ve you got that
look on your face?”
“What look?” Finally changed, I crawl towards the middle of the
bed. I settle sprawled out on my stomach, resting my head atop my clasped
hands.
“That deranged, on the brink of madness look.” His tone all
seriousness. “What trouble have you been up to now? Whose body do I
need to dispose of this time?”
I take a deep breath before answering. “Fisherman’s boy. He took
a swing at Iren.”
“How is she?” Alek asks, leaning forward.
“She’s fine. It looks worse than it is.”
“He still breathing?”
“Yes,” I reply, keeping my tone coy, “but with great difficulty.”
“You went for the nose again, didn’t you?” He tosses a pillow my
way. “You and that damn body part. Can’t you come up with anything else
to break.” He laughs, settling back down on the bed. His eyes are cast
upward, his face set in an amused smirk. I use this to my advantage, swiftly
pouncing on him. The movement catches him off-guard, and I settle into a
comfortable position astride him. He peers up at me, his gaze voicing what
goes unsaid.
From beneath me, his smile widens as he reaches for my figure,
his hands tenderly gripping me just above the hips, his idle fingers playing
with the hem of my tunic, urging me to play along. I leisurely reach for the
hem myself, my movements slow, deliberate. I raise it high enough to
expose the lower curvature of my breast, before allowing the fabric to fall
back into place.
“Wretched tease,” Alek whines. Cutoff mid snort, he flips me
onto my back, his body now straddling my own. “I, however, am not so
cruel,” he adds, shedding his own tunic.
The sight of his inked chiseled chest, bare and hovering above
me, reignites the embers burning within me. I make to remove my own, but
he stops me, pinning my arms above my head.
 “Patience,” he murmurs, his lips only a breath away. Closing my
eyes, I move to close the gap between us, my body trembling with
anticipation. I’m disappointed when I meet nothing but air. My body’s
frustration is a beast of its own, clawing its way towards the surface,
determined to be unleashed. I peek up to find Alek peering down, his eyes
radiant with satisfaction.
“Wretched tease.” My words echoing his tone. Without pause, I
break free of his hold, shoving him off the bed. He tumbles down headfirst,
landing with a hard thump on the floor beneath the window. My barking
laughter bellows, the hollow sound undoubtedly waking every soul in the
Ruin.
“Think that’s funny, do you?” he asks, clawing his way back onto
the bed. The intent in his eyes is clear, his revenge plot obvious. I scramble
away, desperate to avoid the harrowing torture he has planned, but I’m not
fast enough. I’ve almost made it to the other end of the bed when a hand
shoots out, grabbing my ankle, dragging me back towards him.
Before I can plead reason or beg for forgiveness, he sits astride
me, this time using his knees to pin my arms to my sides. His smirk is
fiendish as he brings his hands to my body, his fingers aching to begin their
evil dance of torture. With a final wink, the bastard begins tickling me as if
we were a pair of children.
Stupid oaf.
He’s more than aware of my disdain for it, knows firsthand how
reckless I become when trying to fend him off. I almost knocked out a few
teeth the last time he was foolish enough to try this. Whatever I happen to
break this time serves him right.
“Alek,” I gasp, my stomach aching, my eyes stinging with tears.
“What was that, love?” His words spoken with mock concern.
“Speak up now, I can’t hear you.”
Asshole.
I’m on the brink of hysteria, my mind consumed with thoughts of
revenge, when a knock at the door pauses our mature activity.
“Did you hear that?” he asks.
I push him off, panicked. Not a soul, save for Alek, ventures down
into my Pit. I’m instantly on alert, hunting for my blades. Once the sheath is
strapped securely to my back, I ease open the door.
Gods be damned.
 Out of every resident in the Ruin, this was the one I least expected
to show up at my chamber door.
“Roman?” I make zero attempt to hide my disbelief. His look is
guarded but I swear I detect the slightest hint of irritation.
“Peia,” he says brusquely, “get your shoes. Jakobian wants a word.”
The sound of his name is like a needle to the eye, instantly squashing my
good mood.
“Fine,” I clip, slamming the door in his face. Alek is already
waiting with my boots and cloak in hand by the time I turn around.
“What do you think he wants at this hour?” His tone remains calm,
but I can sense his masked unease. I know what he must be thinking, the
motive behind the edge to his voice, but it’s unwarranted. Since the night I
met him, Jakobian has never made the mistake of forcing me into his bed.
He may have violated my soul beyond recognition, but he’s never laid a
finger on my body.
“I’m sure it’s about what happened in the arena earlier. Probably
wants me to mop up all the blood upstairs myself,” I joke. I’m finishing
with the laces on my second boot when he takes hold of my arm, urging me
to meet his eyes. “I’ll be fine,” I tell him, cutting him off. Silently, I turn
back to my task. I can hear the pattering of his footsteps following me as I
head towards the door.
“I’ll walk you.”
“There’s no need,” I urge, my voice adamant. “Just wait here if you
want or go back to your chamber.” He doesn’t argue as I open the door and
step out beyond the threshold.
In the hallway, Roman is casually leaning against the wall. When
he spots me, he takes off towards the ladder. After a few steps he slows his
pace, allowing me time to catch up. We continue our stroll in silence.
Roman may be a man a few words, but it doesn’t bother me.
Jakobian’s personal quarters encompass the entirety of the seventh
floor and are only accessible through a private stairwell. Since it’s where I
receive most of my execution orders, I know the route well. Once we’ve
stepped foot on the fifth-floor landing, I decide to voice a question that’s
been tugging at the back of my mind since leaving the Den.
“Why did you send the extra guards to the High Den?” Though I’m
confident I already know the reasoning behind his actions, I’d still like to
hear it from his own lips. It takes him a few seconds to answer.
 “I don’t know what you mean,” he says, deciding on a lie. I freeze
mid-step, exasperated by his obstinacy. He ushers me forward, but I refuse
to budge until he finally relents. “They would’ve gone after her, Peia. They
still might and with the approaching Trek, I didn’t want to leave her
vulnerable in our absence.”
Our absence.
Those two little words, words of such minimal importance when
used unconnectedly, convey so much meaning when combined. Roman
added the extra guards not because of me, but because my sister’s safety
matters to him.
As difficult and annoying as he may be at times, the overwhelming
sense of gratitude I feel for him in this moment consumes me, warms me to
the very core leaving such a profound sense of comfort, I don’t even
attempt to hide my affection. I beam at him, quickly throwing my arms
around his shoulders. I expect him to throw me off or the very least shrug
away, but he doesn’t. Instead, he remains perfectly still, a frightened animal
ensnared. I can sense his arms rising, hovering mid raise, but ultimately
decides against it. My hold lasts a second longer before I, too, pull away.
“Thank you, Roman.” My hands braced on his arms. Knowing a
response probably isn’t in the cards I turn away, heading back up the
stairwell. We continue our tread, reaching the seventh floor in no time. I
halt at the entrance to Jakobian’s quarters, the colossal wooden doors
shielding the monster within.
“I’ll wait for you out here.”
“Ok.” Though the word comes out solid, my hands lay unsteady
against the great iron handle. I’m stalling, prolonging the inevitable.
I’ve learned to master my fear over the years, but when face to face
with the monster wolf himself, all that control seems to fly right out the
window. I turn back to Roman, adamant that his be the last face I see.
“Just so you know,” I tell him, “You’re one of the few Kruans I
don’t plan on killing.” I add a wink for dramatic flair before turning back to
the doorway. With my spirits lifted, by my own ill-advised joke no less, I
tramp through the entryway leaving my trusted ally gapping outside.
Jakobian’s quarters are sizable, the labyrinth of rooms spanning the
sum of an entire floor. In the foyer, you’re greeted by numerous doors that
branch off into separate chambers. I’ve only been behind two of the doors
myself, one of which leads to his study, the other his weapons archive. I
take the door farthest left.
The study is bland and modest, not at all what you’d expect from
the Beta of a territory. The full length of the floor is bare, the cool stone
void of any rugs or cover. The chamber walls are jagged in most areas, the
rock roughly hacked away years ago during the construction of the Ruin.
The left wall is void of any tapestries or textiles, its sole occupants an old,
tattered map of Lyca and an ancient dagger carved from human bone, both
items hanging above a monstrous hearth, a roaring flame blazing at its
center. Rumors around the Ruin say he speaks with the blade, seeking
counsel for battle or absolution from depravities.
I wouldn’t put it past him, the man’s a lunatic.
The area to my right is filled with shelves upon shelves of books,
the volumes strewn about at various angles. Some jet out with papers
stuffed inside, others are scribbled with ink and left opened. A desk sits at
the center of the chamber, the wood littered with parchment and quills.
There are two large chairs facing the front of the desk, a single seat opposite
them reserved for the Beta.
As distracting as all the clutter or the creepy mounted bone dagger
may be, it’s the wall opposite the door that really catches the eye. Facing
the woods below, spanning from floor to ceiling, stretches a window of
stained glass. The work is stunning, the vivid depictions of Lyca’s brutal
past an intricate mix of death and beauty.
And there, hunched over the backside of his desk, stands the beast
of beasts himself.
He’s facing away from me, his bare torso a testament to the
uncomfortable warmth of the room. The ink of his kills covers the full of
his back, snaking its way down his arms stopping just short of the skin at
his wrist. Their color isn’t the rich, deep shade of a moonless night like my
own, but that of a dim, ashen charcoal, shedding light to his years.
The marks are diverse, each unique to a specific kill in similar
fashion to how I arrange my own, but it’s the mark at the center of his back
that’s the focus of the entire piece. It’s a rendering of the map of Lyca, an
exact replica of the one hanging along the wall. The attention to detail is
remarkable, without a doubt flawless during his youth, but now disfigured
in areas where the wounds of his battles have left their scars. It’s an
imposing view, majestic even.
And I’d love nothing more than running my blade through it,
slashing the flesh to ribbons, leaving nothing but a pool of blood and ink
behind.
“You wouldn’t be contemplating my demise would you dear, Ker?”
he asks, reading my thoughts. His face remains hidden, but I don’t need to
see him to know he’s amused by the notion.
“The thought never once crossed my mind,” I reply, my tone overly
cheery. He grunts once before circling to the front of his desk where he
motions for me to take a seat opposite him.
“I heard about the arena today.” There’s a wicked glint to his eyes,
a dangerous smirk pulling at the corners of his mouth. “You busted six of
his ribs and shattered his nose.”
I don’t speak a word. I knew I inflicted considerable damage, but I
had no idea the extent until now. I’m not sure if he expects me to feel
remorseful or dread about my actions, but I feel neither. As my silence
drags on, he decides to continue.
“Any thoughts on the fight? Critiques?”
“His reflexes are slow, and he relies too much on his build. It’s a
weakness and it cost him.” He stares at me, his expression guarded giving
nothing away. I’m anticipating a reprimand for my arrogant comments, but
it never comes.
“Noted,” he hums, “Roman came to the same conclusion. Scabius
has been informed his status as Dire has been brought under advisement. A
notice of potential dismissal has been issued.” His eyes are locked, his tone
grave, as he delivers the news.
Well, shit.
To be dismissed from the Dire is a dishonor of the highest degree.
Only members of the Dire are allowed ink stains to be etched across their
flesh marking their kills. Those dismissed from Jakobian’s rank are forced
to eradicate their marks by either fire or blade.
If the shame of dismissal doesn’t kill you, the pain of eradication
surely will.
Roman was right. Due to my little stunt from earlier, I have no
doubt Scabby’s going to be aiming for payback. Jakobian must be thinking
the same thing.
“Watch your back, Hypatia. I’ll wager there’ll be more than a few
knifes coming your way.” I nod. I’ve been dismissed but I can’t leave just
yet. Despite the warning tone, he’s pleased by my bloodshed in the Trial
today. Here’s my chance to bargain for my sister’s freedom.
Now or never.
Deep breath.
“Beta Jakobian?” Despite my attempts at the contrary, my voice
falters near the end divulging my trepidation.
“Beta? Hmm this must be good,” he answers, his voice of undiluted
mirth. “Who’d you kill this time?” The parallels from my conversation with
Alek come to mind but I suppress the grin, centering my focus on the
current situation.
“Madam Basilia is leaving to the free lands,” I tell him. He cocks
an eyebrow, the name not striking a chord. “The herbalist my sister studies
under. She’s leaving to start her own boutique across the Dark Sea.” I hold
my breath, anxiously awaiting his response.
Unable to mask his surprise, his face boasts of utter bewilderment.
Whatever it was he was expecting me to say, it clearly wasn’t that. After a
moments contemplation he answers, his tone searching, contemplative.
“And why would I allow that? What purpose could I possibly have
to send my sole leverage across the Dark Sea? I’m no fool.”
His response is disheartening, my hopefulness sinking to the
bottom of my heart like a stone in that very sea. I want to kill him, and not
in the usual day to day “I want to kill him” type of way, but in the actual rip
him to shreds this very second type.
I set my feet, lock my eyes and tell the single greatest lie of my
existence. “You don’t need leverage. I’m loyal to Krua, loyal to my Beta.” I
practically choke on those last words as their ripped from my throat. His
laughter comes out in rasps, echoing off the rock walls. The Beta actually
starts choking at one point, wiping a stray tear from his cheek.
“As I’ve said, I’m no fool Hypatia. But I do appreciate a great show
of valor. That, combined with your brutality demonstrated earlier, I’m
inclined to grant your request.”
I almost faint. I can’t believe what I’m hearing, the sheer shock has
me itching to retrieve that bone blade and slit my own throat with it to
ensure I’m not simply dreaming.
“Conditionally,” he adds.
Of course.
With a look of severity, he bestows me with the hardest task
imaginable.
 “Kill Alpha Kaneous and you sister may venture where she
pleases.”
Kill Alpha Kaneous.
Kill Alpha Kaneous Jakobian.
This has got to be a joke. A terrible, violent, ill-advised joke.
And even if it wasn’t, like it’s so damn easy. The task is impossible,
no doubt a ploy meant to result in my excruciating death.
After salvaging my jaw from the floor, I find my voice. “He’s your
brother.”
“He’s my Alpha.” His words steeped with glee. “During the
upcoming Trek in Tairheia, you’ll have plenty of time to finish him off. I
already have a soldier selected for the task, but I will bequeath the duty to
you instead. Complete your task by the culmination of the Clash of Fangs
and your sister is free. But it must be done discreetly. No soul can know the
slaying was linked to Krua. Do we have a deal?” His eyes are alight as he
delivers the terms. I don’t think he really believes I’ll accept.
Piss off is what I want to tell him, but I hold my tongue.
“Yes. I’ll do it,” I state sans any hint of hesitation, “since I trust
you’re a man of your word.” His responding grin is wicked, sickening. At
the sight I dismiss myself, heading towards the door.
“It’s been an absolute treasure, as always,” he calls after me. I
can’t seem to move fast enough as I escape through the door.
Kill the most powerful man in Lyca, in his native territory no less,
during the largest festival of the year.
I’m not even sure the task can be done.
Peia, you absolute fool. What have you just agreed to?
The thought plagues me as I trudge my way back into the
hallway, smacking right into Roman’s waiting figure.
“Peia?” He turns. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. Everything’s fine.” The beaming smile I offer truly
genuine.
Your sister is free.
Those words strung together are the most glorious sound to ever
pass my ears. Take a life to free a life, steal the soul of the Alpha wolf to
free the soul of my sister. As savage as it may be, I’ll wear that ink with
ease knowing it was the cost of liberating the person that matters most to
me.
 Roman looks skeptical, but I start off down the hall before he has
time to question me further. Neither of us utters a word as we continue our
journey, the stark echo of our footsteps our sole companion. When we’ve
reached the Ruin entryway, the grand foyer near the doors, I expect Roman
to veer off and head back to his chambers. Needless to say, I’m astonished
when he escorts me right up to my chamber door.
“Peia.” He moves, blocking my path. I wait, expecting some sort of
guidelines or rules pertaining to our journey south, but he says nothing. His
head bows, his fingers digging into his brows as if trying to find the words.
His scar is prominent, made clearly visible by the glow of the torch flame.
It’s a gruesome sight, one that turns my stomach just imagining the
suffering he must have endured during the mutilation. My blood boils at the
thought of Roman as a young boy, tortured beyond belief for being
Jakobian’s son.
What I wouldn’t give for five minutes alone with those bastards.
“Roman,” I start.
“Sleep well.” The words effectively cutting me off. “We leave at
dawn.” His eyes dart a quick glance over my shoulder, his mouth set in a
scowl. He shoots me one last look before retreating down the corridor.
I open my door to find Alek hunched over a chair sharpening one
of my long blades. He doesn’t look up from his work when I enter, too
entranced with the task at hand.
“What did Jakobian want?” he asks by way of greeting.
“Oh, you know. Just the usual stuff.” I’m already heading to the
wardrobe, shedding my clothing as I go. “How I’m the master of combat,
how the other Dire tremble at my feet. He suggested adding a full-scale
sculpture of me to the Ruin courtyard, but I told him that was a bit
excessive.”
His eyes find mine, his mouth set in a deep smile. “Just tell him to
send it to my chamber. I’m sure I can find a spot for it.”
I toss my tunic his way, catching him in the face with it. Amused,
he snatches it off, letting it slip silently to the floor. He carefully places my
sword back in its sheathe, gently resting it against the bedside stand, his
desire thinly veiled by a suggestive smirk. His eyes are still, locking on
mine with such intensity I laugh. He’s too easy to goad, simply reveal a
little skin and all his restraint flies through the window. But I’m not
complaining, this is the exact reaction I was hoping to provoke. He draws
closer, lessening the distance between us.
“Careful now,” I warn him, “Or you won’t be getting any rest
tonight.”
“Is that a threat?” he purrs, his brow cocking in defiance.
“It’s a promise.”
More like a solemn oath.
But I keep that thought private. Instead, surrendering myself over
once again until I’m teetering on the precipice, pleading to be dragged off
the edge.

OceanofPDF.com
 CHAPTER 11
True to my word, we managed maybe a half-hour of sleep at most. As
foolish as it seems getting so little rest the day before a long journey, I had
been anticipating it; there was no way I was getting any proper rest
knowing I was about to leave Iren to the wolves.
Alek heads back to his chamber about an hour before dawn to
finish packing, leaving me time to go through my gear once more before
we’re set to depart. The morning air is icy, the frosty mountain wind biting
at the glass of my window. I decide to layer up warmly, adding a woven cap
atop my usual double braids. When I’m confident everything’s in order, I
set out towards the stables.
My belongings load is light, a single satchel slung over my
shoulder. My weapons cargo is another matter entirely. Along with my
customary double khopesh sheath, I also have my trusty knife tucked into
my right boot, a slim dagger hidden at the back of my waistband, my xiphos
strapped over my left thigh, and five shuriken hanging from a casing
Roman fashioned that fastens behind the neck. The steel is heavy, but I
refuse to abandon a single weapon.
The morning air crisp, the sky still a deep purple, as I tread down
the path leading to the stables. Soldiers of every rank horde the trail, the
whole Ruin readying for departure. I’m halfway there when a figure falls
into step beside me. It isn’t who I was expecting, but I can’t deny the
mounting sense of relief I feel when in his company.
“Sleep well?” Roman asks. Though his tone may suggest
otherwise, I know this is his earnest attempt at being social. He’s armed as
heavily as I am, his weapons larger and clearly visible strapped to different
areas of his body. He, too, decided on a woven cap, the loose fabric hanging
low over the nape of his neck.
“Not really,” I answer honestly.
 “It’s only a month.” His calm meadow gaze dances with mine.
“She’ll be fine.” I never realized how much I take Roman’s perceptiveness
for granted until this moment. Discussing Iren without ever mentioning her
name is one of the reasons I panic so terribly every time he’s thrown into a
trial. He understands without discussion, wordlessly recognizing my
deepest fears. He eases my trepidation as if the gift to soothe simply comes
naturally to him.
“Yeah, she’ll be fine,” I agree half-heartedly.
She has to be.
The stables are barren compared to the Ruin path, with many
horses already saddled and ready for travel, though there are a few Dire
readying their steeds by the dirt knoll. They offer Roman a respectful nod as
we pass, most not wasting a single glance my direction. I don’t mind, I
prefer to blend into the background. I haven’t seen any sign of my beloved
Bastien or the delightful Scabby but I’m sure they’re around here
somewhere. Upon entering the large wooden structure, I head straight to my
usual mare at the far end of the stables.
“Not her,” Roman calls, “This isn’t a trip for Dyna.”
Dyna. My sweet girl is a steed of beauty, a fine work of art
fashioned by a powerful deity I have no doubt. Her mane is a deep, velvety
chocolate with small patches of cream covering the area below her eyes.
My masquerade mare, as Alek accurately dubbed her. She’s the sole source
of innocence to reside on the Ruin grounds. A sheep among wolves.
She’s an old girl, having survived far past her time. Jakobian gave
her to me as a gift, a means of carrying out my kills away from the
mountain. I’m sure he expected an imminent death, probably hoped I’d
have to deliver a mercy killing, but my girl’s a sturdy one. She won’t
abandon me just yet.
“She’s tougher than she looks.” When I reach the gate of her stall
she heads straight to me, burying her muzzle in my palm. I smooth over the
hair at her neck, my fingers softly stroking the cream of her mask.
“Of that I have no doubt,” he answers, approaching Dyna’s stall.
She stirs at the sound of his voice, easily abandoning me without a second
thought, the incessant flirt she is. “But the journey’s a rough one and I don’t
want that for her.”
His eyes are trained on her as he says this, his expression one of
serene admiration. It’s not often he looks so at ease, and I must admit it’s a
pleasing sight. His head snaps up, our gaze mating. I turn away sheepishly,
embarrassed to have been caught staring.
“Peia, come on,” he beckons, “I have another mount in mind.” I
follow him toward the front of the stable, exiting through a side door.
The main stable is enormous, housing no less than a hundred horses
at any given time, with many smaller adjoining stalls connecting by the
entryway. There is another stable about a quarter mile down the path where
the elite creatures, those belonging to Jakobian, Roman, and other ranking
officials, dwell. This is where Roman is leading me now.
I’d never been to the lesser stable, but I’ve always been curious. It’s
no secret Jakobian’s stallion is a behemoth of a creature, a single glance
could confirm it, but it’s been rumored that the Beta’s horses were breed
with descendants of Aethon, the fire-breathing horse of Ares, to create the
monstrosities his Dire ride. As per usual, the rumors were false. I have yet
to meet a single fire-breather.
“You’ll take him,” he says with smirk, pointing to a horse at the far
end. The stall Roman indicates is around the corner, the steed hidden from
view. The look on his face is odd, seemingly out of place, until I catch a
glimpse of the steed meant to carry me across Lyca.
I’m not sure what I was expecting, but the creature presented to me
certainly isn’t it. I’m speechless, completely awe struck by the beast’s
massive presence. This is no creature of flesh and blood, but a true creation
of the Gods, a stallion chiseled of marble and stone.
The animal is the shade of darkest night, the steed’s mane smooth
with a rich glossy sheen. Its limbs are far taller than I, its true stature
bordering on thrice my own. The muscles of its legs recall the myths of the
chimera, the solid build infused with the essence of a lion. It’s a mammoth
of a mount, bordering on terrifying, but I’ve never seen a more brilliant
creature. I approach the stallion, my feet set in motion by their own accord,
intent on familiarizing myself with the animal.
“Wait Peia!” Roman cries, his arms flying out as if to jerk me
backward. His worry is surprisingly endearing but unwarranted, the steed
having greeted me with a low nicker.
“Relax, Roman. I think he’s in love with me already.” I approach
slowly, gentling reaching out to stroke the steed’s neck.
Unconvinced, he barks out a warning, “Peia stop-”
“Roman, enough.” My chide tinged with mirth. “Not every soul is
as cranky as you are.”
Annoyed, he finally relents. “This is Arion. He’ll be yours for the
journey south.” His eyes go soft as he gazes at the steed, his mouth hinting
at the beginnings of a smile. I wait for it, silently pleading to bear witness
the long sought-after occurrence, but all traces vanish just as quickly as they
appeared. “But fare warning, he can be a stubborn bastard, with a nasty
habit of tossing his rider.”
“Ah, interesting ploy Roman. So, your true intention is to kill me
before we ever step foot in Tairheia. And here I was thinking the stallion
was a testament of your everlasting affection.”
“Saddle up, Peia.” A direct command from my CO. He doesn’t turn
back as he heads for his own steed, completely ignoring my attempts at
humor. “You’re riding with my brigade. We set off in a half hour, so be
ready.”
“And if I’m not?” I call out after him.
“Then I’ll toss you atop my steed and you’ll ride the entirety of the
journey with me.” My laugh comes out a snort, a delightfully dainty sound.
Oh Roman, forever the charmer.
I’m ready with plenty of time to spare, my steed saddled, loaded
and ready to go. By some divine intervention, Alek ends up in Roman’s
brigade as well. Considering the two aren’t exactly fawning all over each
other, this should make for an interesting journey.
Milos, Absinthe, and Zale, Roman’s closest comrade, are among
the other Dire accompanying us to the Alpha territory. Though Zale doesn’t
typically say much to me, he at least acknowledges my presence. Not to
mention, he’s very easy on the eyes. He stands about as tall as Roman, his
hair black as pitch, the locks shorn along the sides and left longer and
ruffled at the top. His hooded eyes a rich chestnut, his lips plump and full.
Alek thinks I have a crush, but I doubt any male or female is immune to his
appeal.
Spyridon is also present, much to my chagrin, though this isn’t a
surprise. He and Roman seem to get along just fine. The seven of us head
out later than projected, about an hour behind the rest of the convoy. I
expect this to put Roman in a foul mood, but it seems to have the opposite
effect.
Our pace is unyielding as we ride on, our steeds pounding away as
they carry us miles into the distance. The weather changes drastically the
further we venture, the air growing warmer each day. Soon I’ve shed most
of my layering, riding a majority of the journey in my simple tunic, my
usually hidden ink exposed for the world to see. The sight makes me
uncomfortable, but I don’t let it show. The trip so far has been tolerable, no
fighting or belligerence amongst Roman’s Dire, but with a couple days’
worth of ride left, there’s still time for a loss limb or two.
On the final night of our journey, about a half days’ ride to the
capitol, we decide to settle down for the night in a clearing on the outskirts
of Bezarus. The night is quiet, the area desolate save for the skeletal
remains of an old trading bazaar. I’m on first watch but it doesn’t trouble
me, it’s not as if I could get much sleep anyways.
The night is pleasant, nothing compared to the biting cold of
Kruan nights. Though unnecessary, the warmth from Roman’s fire is
comforting, the flames blazing deep into the darkness. Tuning out the
rhythm of Alek’s steady breathing beside me, I instead focus on the other
noises of the night. I use the opportunity to gaze at the sky, take in the view
of my beautiful moon. It’s not often that I get moments alone with my old
friend and tonight’s the perfect chance to reunite.
I’m in the middle of my admiration when I sense it, the eyes
boring into my chest. My gaze shoots down to find Spyridon staring across
the flames, the slits of his eyes fixated. I expect him to turn away, but his
stare remains trained on me, the muscles of his lips snaking into the
beginnings of a serpentine leer. The look is unnerving, and I counter with a
fairly lewd gesture. At this the smile broadens, widening into an expression
that’s positively saurian.
I retrieve my knife from its scabbard, stabbing it into the dirt at
my side. The action is pointed and deliberate, the move intentionally
exaggerated so there’s no mistaking my threat. He offers me a final amused
smirk before laying down on his mat for the night.
Naturally, I didn’t manage a lick of rest after the lovely vision
Spyridon left me with. Not even after Milos took over watch did I manage
to find any respite. My exhaustion certainly doesn’t go unnoticed by my
CO.
“You look awful,” Roman says first thing in the morning. His way
with words unparalleled, in a class by itself. Zale snorts out a laugh.
“Smooth,” Zale chirps, patting Roman’s shoulder as he passes.
“We can’t all be fashioned from pure beauty, Roman. That’s an
honor reserved solely for you.” I take a break from loading my steed to
bless him with one of my dazzling smiles.
“Peia.” My CO takes a step closer, his tone grave. “Keep an eye
out for Spyridon.” His warning is unexpected, completely catching me off
guard.
“You were awake last night?”
“You’re not the only one who doesn’t sleep well.” His admission
feels intimate, a secret shared between us.
“You didn’t say anything.”
“There was no need, but I was unaware of his feelings towards
you. Had I known I would have ordered him to another brigade. Keep your
distance and stay alert.”
He says this last part under his breath, a command meant to be
obeyed. We finish saddling our horses and with that we’re off, barreling
towards a greater enemy with lesser foes by our
side.
With each mile gained, my anxiety rises. I’ve never been this far
away from Iren before. Soon, I’m ringing my hands often enough I’m
certain to have burned holes into the leather palms of my gloves. We’re
only a couple hours out, our destination a looming threat on the horizon. As
we draw near Alek pulls his steed in close beside me.
“You won’t be able to have any of this for a while,” he says,
waving a hand over his figure.
“The thought hadn’t occurred to me. Alek what am I to do? How
will I manage the withdrawal?” I feign mock terror.
“Joke now but I can sense the pain beneath your words, the
desperate longing, the insatiable need only I can fill. Be forewarned, it’s
only going to get worse.”
“You’re right, the need will always be there,” I catch his eyes,
holding his gaze to mine. “I guess I’ll just have to take care of it myself,” I
tell him with a wink so there’s no confusing my meaning. The change in his
demeanor is immediate. I knew exactly what I was doing, knew the effect
my words would have, my triumphant smile plastered so tightly my face
begins to burn.
After a beat and a slight rearrangement to his trousers, he leans in,
closing the gap between our steeds. He murmurs low under his breath,
intended for my ears only. “As ominous as the circumstances may be, at
least some good will come of it.” I raise a brow, not following his train of
thought. “The other Dire may finally be able to get some sleep.” My
confusion must be palpable because before long he adds in a low moan, his
head tilted back, his face slated towards the sky, “Ohhh Alek… Alek!”
I don’t make a single attempt to hide my amusement, my loud
boisterous laugh ringing far out across the expanse. Roman turns slightly,
clearly interested in my sudden outburst.
I lean over as well, mimicking Alek’s move from earlier, as if I, too,
have something equally amusing to say. When he leans over, his ear eagerly
awaiting my remark, I tug on the strap of his sheath, ripping him right off
his horse. He lands in a heap on the ground, the dirt flying up around him
encasing him in a cloud of dust.
Roman takes one glance at Alek, the amusement on his face
irrefutable, before continuing on. I’m pleased, laughing the miles away as
we draw nearer. I know exactly what Alek has done for me, offered up a
distraction to ease my troubled heart, and I’ve never been more grateful to
have my Alala by my side.

OceanofPDF.com
 CHAPTER 12
The sun is merciless, glaring down upon us along the shade-less plains. My
skin is roasting, the sweat beading at my forehead, trickling down my back,
pooling at the base of my spine. The ground is a haze, blurring by as we
ruthlessly press our loyal beasts forward. I chance a glace backward, my
free hair billowing in streaks at my back. I unwound my braids this morning
before we set off, allowing the loose strands to fly as they may.
I bring up the rear of our party, Milos riding slightly ahead to my
left. We are fast approaching Tairheia, the dust and dirt soon giving way to
banks and knolls of green. The marine breeze is refreshing, a moderate waft
cooling the moisture on my skin. The aroma is invigorating, a subtle
mixture of saline and brine saturating the air around us. The journey’s end is
no longer simply an illusion in the distance, a fata morgana shimmering in
and out of focus, but instead a fully corporal nightmare barreling our way.
Roman leads the way, driving us through the thickening foliage
onto a narrow dirt road. The road is badly damaged, littered with ruts and
holes from years of use. I’m guessing this must be the single route in or out
of the Alpha territory. The road soon broadens, widening out before
reaching the outskirts of Tairheia. Roman pulls up, slowing our wild gallop
to finish the journey at a modest canter.
“The Pillars of Lyca,” Milos explains, slowing his steed so his
saddle sits adjacent my own. He motions to the four atrocious stone pillars
situated atop a hill to the east.
Each of the four pillars is topped with a wolf, four beastly dires of
the old world carved by a steady hand from solid stone. They sit facing
across the sea, dutifully waiting to defend Lyca from the rest of the world.
The Alpha’s very own Cerberus plucked straight from Hades to guard the
wolves of the Pack.
“The first Alpha had them made to embody the other Pack
territories, to represent a unity between the Alpha and his Betas. Before the
commencement of the Trek Feast, the Alpha makes a sacrifice to Lycaon at
those pillars, spilling the blood of innocence at their feet.” His words hold
no trace of cruelty or malice, he’s simple explaining the traditions of the
Pack.
Blood of innocence.
The thought of a young virgin slain on the cold stone, the gore
saturating the ground, staining the once white pillars a wicked crimson, is
sickening. I force my mind elsewhere as we close in on the outer boundary
of Tairheia.
Unlike the other Pack territories of Lyca, Tairheia is a closed
region. With the sea acting as a guard to the south, the surrounding borders
are enclosed entirely by a 30-foot wall. The wall is heavily patrolled around
the clock by some of Lyca’s fiercest soldiers. Apart from the port, there are
only two other entryways in or out of the territory. Trade is heavily
monitored, travel all but forbidden unless approved beforehand by the
Alpha or one of his officials.
On the final stretch of road, about a mile from the western entry
gate, we run into another convoy heading to the Trek. The group is larger
than ours, eleven males and twelve females, led by a burly young man
about Roman’s age. Though the faces are all strangers, I’d recognize their
Pack sigil anywhere, the howling wolf fashioned into the form of a crescent
moon.
The old sigil of a new Nymphai.
I can’t tally the number of times I used to draw that very symbol
with my finger in the dirt of the courtyard of the Citadel or in the soft mud
of the surrounding woods, the beaming pride I used to feel whenever I
happened to catch a glimpse of it anywhere in the marketplace.
Seeing it now, engraved on the breastplates and saddles of these
brutes, all I feel is repulsion.
“Roman Jakobian, I’ll be damned. I thought the Alpha’s kin
would’ve ridden with thousands,” the burly one says, the envy in his voice
obvious. As we draw closer, I notice the insignia embellishing the leather of
his baldric: Labrys, the double-axe. This isn’t just any soldier, he’s the Grey
Commander of Nymphai. “You should be more cautious traveling out here
with so few men at your side, you never know how many enemies may be
lying in wake.”
If I didn’t already despise him based on lineage alone, I certainly do
now. I happily imagine wiping that menacing smirk off his face.
 “I’m touched by your concern Talos but I’m not worried. We both
know what my Dire are worth,” Roman answers coolly. Talos doesn’t look
amused. It’s clear Roman’s struck a nerve, the stranger’s smirk souring into
an expression of pure hatred. His eyes roam over our group, quietly
assessing our level of threat. I tense when his gaze reaches me, dreading the
potential confrontation, but my small stature must be unimposing for he
quickly moves on to the next.
“Aww, come now Commander Jakobian, no need for such hostility.
Rest. You and your Dire should share a drink with us.” He feigns sincerity
but only an idiot would miss the menace in his voice, the threat disguised as
a friendly offer of civility. I anticipate Roman’s answer before the response
ever leaves his lips.
“Of course, Commander Anagos. We’d be honored.” Roman
motions for us to dismount. My CO might be as approachable as a sand
viper, but he’s a mastermind at political maneuverings, just like his father.
He’ll stand back sipping ale with a man he despises all the while wearing
his typical narrow eyed scowl. He knows rebuffing the son of another Beta
could be considered an insult to the entire territory.
We, along with Talos’ soldiers, tether our horses to a nearby post.
The soldiers of Nymphai have gathered in a grove off to the side, the
Kruan’s soon joining them. One of the females from Nymphai dismounts
her steed with a loud grunt, an air of superiority wafting about her. She’s
tall, almost eye level with Roman, with a slender frame and light milky
skin. Hair has been shorn from the left side of her scalp, the right side
cropped into spindly sun kissed spikes. She eyes our convoy with the same
disdain as her Commander but one glimpse of Roman and her gaze turns
unquestionably predatory.
“Delectable,” she declares loudly, her voice carrying across the
grove.
I physically cringe at the abrasiveness, embarrassed by her remark.
Unable to retain my composure, I choke out a poorly stifled snicker.
“Something funny?” she asks, shooting me a death glare that could
rival Roman’s finest.
“Not at all,” I reply with as much composure as I can muster. I’m
not in the mood for a fight.
She stalks off towards the others after blessing me with a final
glare. I hang back alone, not too keen to be drinking alongside the men who
now reside in the territory my father once governed, the land of my
childhood home. One Nyphian soldier is passing around a bottle of Phinxa,
a specialty drink of my home territory made from the distilled pollen of the
dragonfae root.
Once when I was younger, Kai stole three bottles from the kitchen
pantry the night before the Moon Banquet. We downed every drop of the
sweet liquid until we were both sick to our stomachs, drunk out of our
minds. My mother was furious, but my father laughed for days.
“Now what have we got here?” probes one of Talos’ soldiers.
I was too preoccupied with thoughts of the past to notice the threats
of the present. It appears during my reminiscence one of Talos soldiers has
focused his attention on me. He’s a lanky young man of medium height
with hair the color of frost, the wispy strands hanging limply past his
shoulders. His eyes, the shade of soldered coal, appear beady beside his
long-crooked nose. He swaggers over, his ego not far behind. I reflexively
take a step backward, the putrid stench of him overwhelming.
“Don’t be scared love, I don’t bite,” he starts, “unless you ask real
nicely.” His smile is revolting, his teeth rotting, brown with decay.
Apparently, the standard of hygiene has been slipping in the last
couple of years.
I move to walk around him, but he grips me by the arm, pulling me
back. I don’t waste anytime time ripping my arm free, flipping the bastard
onto his back.
“I’d stay down if I were you, love,” I tell him, slamming a boot to
his chest. Our little scuffle has caught the attention of our entourage, every
face turning our way. I find Roman moving through the crowd, making his
way to the front with Zale close at his heel, the mask of his face
indecipherable.
“What the hell is this?” Talos demands. He’s standing beside
Roman at the front of the group, his face incredulous as he takes in the sight
of his man on the floor. The astonishment in his eyes is transparent when
the revelation hits him. “No, it can’t be. Is this the notorious Ker of Krua?
The wolf of wolves, the bringer of death herself?”
Roman says nothing, simply taking the place at my side. I don’t
take my eyes from Talos, pondering his next move. I raise my foot allowing
the idiot to return to his feet. He swiftly takes the place to the right of his
commander, his face contorted with fury.
 “Not much of threat, is she? I’ve met imps larger than she,” Talos
says delighted. His group laughs, evidently amused by his assessment. I
don’t shift, I couldn’t care less what the imbecile thinks.
“Ker of Krua my ass. More like Omega bitch,” adds my hilarious
new acquaintance, his clothing still peppered with dirt.
I can hear a blade being released from its scabbard somewhere at
my back. I’m assuming it’s Alek, but I don’t turn to check.
“Very original,” I reply with a wink. My acquaintance steps
forward eager for another round but Talos stops him with a hand to the
chest.
“Now Javan, that’s not how we treat a former daughter of
Nymphai.” The words slither from his lips like the hiss from a serpent. His
smile is pure malevolence as he adds, “Tell her how we honored the
Madaeus line.”
Javan steps forward, a sinister smile of his own transforming his
face into something atrocious. “I’m sure you’ve heard the stories, about
how after both Beta Madaeus and his Second were beheaded we mounted
their heads on spikes in the town square. Let the birds have their way with
the eyes.” His tone is positively gleeful as he recounts the tale, every
horrendous detail worse than the next. “Their bodies hung from the citadel
walls for weeks until the stench became unbearable. Then we tossed them
in the river like waste. I hear your brother ended up there as well. Maybe
they were happily reunited.”
Eon.
My remarkable little brother, with his amber eyes and a laugh that
could melt even the densest frost.
I beheld the mangled corpse that once made up my valiant elder
brother Kai. I was with his body before they burnt him, confirmed his death
with my own eyes, but they never recovered Eon’s body. The river current
was too strong they said, the waters too powerful, so it carried him away,
down to the depths of his watery grave.
My blood boils, my rage a visceral being all its own desperately
pleading to be unleashed upon this Earth. My vision blurs, my eyes burning
with fury.
I’m going to tear this lot to shreds, roughly dislocating them limb
from limb, slowly cutting through each tendon like I would a fine steak.
“That’s enough,” barks Zale. I turn, stunned to find him standing
beside me, surprised by his sudden outburst. I notice Absinthe has shifted as
well, her blade held out menacingly before her, Milos standing watchfully
by her side, vigilantly taking in the foes at our front.
So, it was Absinthe that drew her blade.
“Ah, I see. This is how the little thing has survived so long, hiding
behind other Dire. Fascinating. Too bad your mother never had such a
shield. She may have fared better.”
No longer able to control my anger I unsheathe my khopesh, eager
to release my pent-up wrath on one of these monsters. I’m hoping it’s Javan
who chooses to fight but I’d be satisfied killing any of them.
The Nymphian’s chuckle, but after a beat Javan steps forward.
So much for not fighting today.
“Don’t worry love, I’ll make it quick,” he sneers, puckering his lips
at me.
How chivalrous.
“Peia,” Roman calls. I’m fearful he’s going to stop me, forbid me
from fighting, but he doesn’t. Instead, he adds, “Don’t kill him. He might
deserve it but it’s not worth the hassle.”
I reply with a nod, turning back to my foe. He retrieves his own
sword, a long blade ornamented from hilt to tip. I don’t waste a single
precious second as I set free the carnal beast that dwells within me. I slash
out furiously, harsher than my usual technique but entirely strategized,
nonetheless. He blocks blow after blow but he’s slow, sluggish. My moves
are wearing him down exactly as I’d planned.
When he does finally manage a swing of his own, the move is
labored, his limbs weak from exhaustion. It’s a high swipe, easily blocked
while I simultaneously set my second khopesh free, landing a gash to his
upper thigh. A routine move of mine it may be, but it has yet to prove
ineffective. The wound debilitates him, a string of obscenities escaping
from his lips in a slur. I knock his blade from his grasp, the steel
plummeting to the ground with a loud thud. I could finish him off with ease,
bestowing him the reddest of smiles, but I refrain, not wanting to cause
Roman any diplomatic trouble.
“I’d enjoy nothing more than drowning the foliage in your blood,” I
tell him, bringing my lips to his ear, “but I’ll save that for another day.”
I raise fully, returning my blades to their sheath. My fingers brush
against the casing holding my shuriken giving me an idea. I quickly retrieve
one, sending it flying across the grass towards the horse post. The aim is
exact, the dagger severing the rope fastening his steed in place. The impact
startles him, the frightened animal rapidly taking off down the road in the
opposite direction of the capitol.
“Enjoy your walk to Tairheia,” I declare before stalking off towards
my own horse. I hear steady footfalls behind me. The absence of running
treads tells me the Nymphian’s aren’t in pursuit, a slight disappointment if
I’m being honest.
What I wouldn’t give to massacre every last one of them.
Alek tries to stall me, gently grabbing my shoulder, but I shrug him
off. I don’t crave consolation. I want to let my rage simmer and fester until
it consumes me.
We mount our steeds without a word passing between the seven of
us, silently setting off towards Tairheia. I fall to the rear of the group, too
caught up in thoughts of mangled corpses.
I’d heard vague stories about the night of the raid in Nymphai, but
I’d never heard the horrific details. Tears sting at the rims of my eyes, my
stomach coiling at the thought of my parent’s suffering. Unable to bare it a
second longer I jump from my horse, roughly falling to my knees. I retch
endlessly, over and over until there’s nothing left of me, my heaving dry,
my insides raw and aching.
To the credit of every Dire present, not one mutters a single sound.
Once I’m finished, I return to my steed, urging him forward behind the rest
of my companions. Sensing someone’s attention I look up to find
Spyridon’s eyes glued on me, his face set in a pensive stare. This time it’s
he who turns away nervously as we reach the wretched capitol’s gates.

OceanofPDF.com
 CHAPTER 13
The Capitol of Lyca is unlike any place I’ve ever beheld. Even the harshly
stunning Krua is nothing more than a barren wasteland when compared to
the Alpha territory. To the world outside the walls, one might expect a glum
stronghold dictated by the fiercest of brutes, a place deprived of any true
beauty. Yet, this is only half true. Though the deadly patrolmen might
number in the high thousands, Tairheia is the very definition of exquisite.
The western entry gate opens into the woodlands above Tairheia.
The Alpha capitol itself rests at the bottom of one of the sun valleys, the
Sparring Sea to the south serving as a natural enclosure. The color of the
waters mirror that of the sky, glistening a brilliant shade of celeste unlike
any other I’d seen before. The air is calm, warmed by a cloudless sky,
trickled with the mist of the beating waves. Though not the largest of the
Pack territories, I have no doubt it is unsurpassed in its brilliance.
The voyage through the brush is short, no longer than half a mile or
so, the cobblestone road fast approaching. Roman leads us on with ease,
surely as acquainted here as he is with Krua. As we reach the polis, the
territory really sparks to life. The streets are bustling, flooded with venders
and merchants selling everything under the sun. My mouth waters at the
scent of fresh psarosoupa wafting from a tent nearby. From food to jewelry
to weaponry, there’s no lack of diversity here.
The paths narrow and widen without notice, curving along
buildings and structures. Children play in the streets, dashing between our
party without any care in the world. A few close calls later I find myself
abandoning my ride, finishing the last stretch on foot. The further along we
venture, the more lost I become. There’s no way I’d be able to escape the
capitol without a map, not that I’m considering it.
A few miles later we’re back near the foliage, hills and knolls the
new companions to our route. I’m so absorbed with greenery, the plants
having brought my sister to the forefront of my thoughts, I don’t notice
when our convoy stops, almost leading my steed into the one in front of
me.
Roman’s halted the party at the base of large archway, the
limestone monument supported by two lycanthropic statues an entryway of
sorts into a large tunnel built into the side of a hill. The stone carvings are
magnificent, the two timber wolves crouching in unison, stalking their pray.
The delicate detailing, from their feral snarls to their crouching hind legs,
renders the large beasts all the more menacing. Artifacts such as these
would fit perfectly among the relicts of the Gods so it’s no stretch to assume
we’ve reached the entrance to the Alpha’s palace.
Over the course of my gawking, my CO’s decided to join me on the
ground, the travel worn Dire now talking to one of the foot soldiers posted
on guard. He’s a squat, older fellow with his pepper hair trimmed short. The
skin peeking out from beneath his armor is bronzed, testament to years
spent under the sun. With skin permanently crinkled around the eyes, he
reminds me of an affectionate grandfather. He beams at Roman who in turn
looks very at ease in his company and I wonder if they two might be
related. He offers Roman a salute then steps aside, allowing us entry into
the tunnel. Roman remounts, leading his steed through the archway, the rest
of the party following suit. I take up the rear having chosen to remain on
foot.
I fall back a pace or two, lagging behind to admire the etchings
carved along the tunnel walls. They’re primordial, the runes dating back
centuries at least. I bring my hands to the cool stone, my fingers grazing
over each elegant marking, wondering whose hands created these. As the
end of the tunnel draws closer and I step out into the light, I’m momentarily
blinded as it takes my eyes a moment to adjust.
And here I thought the archway was impressive, the sight a now
sad comparison to the mesmeric scene just beyond.
The courtyard is modest, the dirt expanse larger than most, but it’s
the garden situated just to the front of the palace that truly gives testament
to the enchantment of the old Gods. It’s stunning, undoubtedly rendered in
the image of the Garden of the Hesperides, with each apple tree brimming
with the succulent fruits. Just above the garden tree line sits the majestic
structure built at the center of the compound.
The Palace Lupine.
And believe me, the structure does not disappoint.
Following the tiled path between the teeming trees, the sweet scent
bolstering my on growing hunger, we reach the first of the stairs leading up
to the portico. The row of pillars supporting the palace entrance hall are
colossal, ogres forged of night and granite, running alongside the entire
rectangular building. The palace itself, with its structures of marble and
stone, looks to be encased in gold. Its entrance hall is as tall as it is wide,
with tower after tower rising up at different locations across the grounds.
The palace isn’t situated on flatland, the ground beneath riddled with hills
and vales. The Lupine compound extends across acres of bountiful lands,
the building portion encompassing at least half of that with its connected
civilian lodgings and military quarters.
After dismount, our luggage is quickly gathered and ushered away
by the palace servants. Following Roman up the stairs into the grand foyer,
we weave through groups of gathered soldiers, each new face more
intimidating then the last. The room is open, freely flowing in from the
outside portico. There are no doors or windows holding anyone captive
within these Lupine walls. The ceiling is spherical, a deep cream color
adorned with carvings of different constellations. Smaller pillars are
strategically situated around the foyer holding the structure in place. There
are two stairways at the rear of the room branching off in separate
directions. The room is crowded, soldiers from the different pack territories
lingering at all corners of the ovular area. Sare is among them, the only face
I recognize in the sea of strangers. He rushes over to Roman when he spots
us.
“Where have you been? Your father was expecting you hours ago.”
His tone is reproachful, but I detect the hidden relief. Jakobian must’ve
been badgering him about our whereabouts, probably threatened him with
beheading if he didn’t locate his beloved son.
“We got detained,” answers Roman, his face defiant, his stance on
the defensive. I’m grateful he doesn’t go into further detail.
“Well, Alpha Kane’s been waiting on you to start the
introductions,” he says ushering us towards the stairs to the right. I stay
close to Alek as we’re shepherded between the hordes into what must be the
Full Moon Hall, the chamber where the Alpha’s throne sits.
The room is cavernous, stretching far and wide. Unlit torches are
situated along the walls, their illuminance unrequired at this hour. Sunlight
crashes through the open windows, the salty breeze mixing with the stench
of damp bodies. The sea of people already assembled is split down the
middle by a pathway leading to the raised dais at the heart of the room
where the Alpha is seated. My mouth hangs agape as I finally feast my eyes
on the faceless ruler of my nightmares. His resemblance to his brother is
uncanny. If I didn’t know any better, I might even mistake the two. The
only real feature separating the brothers is their poise. Where Marxus
Jakobian presents himself as confident and self-assured, his brother
Kaneous is more modest. There isn’t the slightest hint of arrogance about
him.
Seated beside him on the dais are two young men. The eldest
looking male is tall, his shoulder length locks the hue of rotting tree bark.
The other is a few inches shorter, the wild spikes of his hair a decadent
caramel. These must be Silas and Nicias Jakobian, the sons of Tairheia and
Roman’s cousins. I’m not sure who’s who but based on the sinister look
plaguing the taller boy, I’m assuming that to be Silas.
His name is passed around from territory to territory, notorious for
being overly vicious to anyone who crosses his path. His deeds paint him as
a complete lunatic, manic cackle and all. The younger boy, who I’m betting
must be Nicias, seems timid, reserved, and clearly uncomfortable being the
center of attention.
Roman abandons us, heading towards the direction of the dais. He
takes a stance beside his father, the figure lingering in the Alpha’s shadow.
“Welcome to Tairheia,” Kane starts, his voice booming across the
expanse, echoing tenfold, silencing the restless mob. “I’m honored to have
the finest warriors Lyca has to offer in my territory.” He stands, striding
towards the edge of the dais. His sons remain seated, their eyes roving
across the crowded room, taking stalk of any foreign threats. Roman is as
stoic as ever, his head held high, his eyes roaming through the crowd.
“You all should be honored, for you’re here for a celebration of the
highest caliber in honor of our sacred ancestor. As you well know, the
commencement of the Trek begins tomorrow evening with our sacrifice,
followed by the Feast,” he continues. “My men will show you to your
sleeping quarters where you will reside for the remainder of your stay. Rest
well my wolves, for the hunt soon begins.” With this we are dismissed.
I follow Alek towards the rest of our convoy. Unfortunately, it
seems Bastien and his lackeys survived the journey, much to my dismay.
I’d been praying they fell into a ravine somewhere along the way.
“I expected him to be taller,” Alek whispers as we follow our guide
out of the hall towards a set of double doors to our right. My response is on
the tip of my tongue when an arm grabs me from behind. Whirling around I
find Sare sneering, a disdainful look warping his features further.
“Not you Ker, you’ll be staying elsewhere. Follow me.” Alek
begins to protest but I silence him with a look. There’s no use contesting a
direct order from Jakobian. Besides, I was anticipating this all along.
Instead of taking the double doors to our left with the others, Sare leads me
back down to the foyer where a petite girl younger than Iren awaits us.
She’s thin, her features overly sharp, hollow from days gone hungry. She
doesn’t look up, keeping her eyes focused on the floor.
“Take her to the Weeping Tower,” he barks before making his
departure.
Weeping Tower?
Lovely.
The girl starts off toward the left staircase, making a sharp right on
the first landing. Taking the hallway all the way down we wind up at
another flight of stairs, this one narrow and spiraling. She leads our ascend,
climbing higher into the tower. The hike is awful, my limbs screaming for
mercy from days without use on the ride in. I attempt to make small talk,
asking her name, but the effort of that trivial action alone is draining, so I
abandon the effort. The farther we go the more I’m convinced Jakobian is
trying to kill me.
Death by lung failure.
After what feels like hours, we finally reach the top, the spiraling
evening out into a short hallway with a single door at its end. She unlocks
my quarters, handing over the large iron key, before starting back down, all
without uttering a single word. The large oak door is heavy, sturdy against
any unwanted company.
The room is small but quant, nicer than my chamber in the Ruin. It
has tall arched windows along three of the four walls, the outside view
confirming my suspicions. This tower that is to be my living quarters for the
time being reaches at least ten stories into the sky. The realization might
alarm another, but I’ve never felt more secure.
There’s a small bed in the middle of the room with a wardrobe and
desk just to the left. I discover an adjoining bathing chamber at the door to
the right. I notice my belongings have already been brought up, my gear
waiting patiently at the edge of me bed. I’m in the middle of searching
through my rucksack, making sure everything’s in order, when I hear a rap
at the door.
Answering, I step aside allowing Alek room to enter. “So, here’s
where they’ve stowed you away.”
“How did you know where I was?”
“I followed you.”
“I see you’ve resorted to stalking. What has the heartbreaker of
Krua been reduced to?” I tease.
“A desperate fool I’m afraid. Why’d Jakobian send you up here?
Hoping you’ll fall from the window? Plummet to a gory death?”
“Probably trying to ensure Scabby doesn’t end up flaying me in my
sleep.”
“That’s a disturbing thought.” Alek makes himself at home,
sprawling out on the bed. “Why are you still wearing your sheath?” he asks.
I’m on the brink of responding, when there’s another knock at the door. Our
shocked expressions are identical as I reach for the knob, opening to find
Spyridon’s annoyingly smug face.
“Jakobian requests your presence in the Crypt, the both of you.
Now.” His bark is almost cheerful. We follow him out the onto the landing.
“How’d he know you were up here?” I ask when we’re out of
earshot.
“Where else would I be?”
We trail after Spyridon in silence, our footfalls echoing against the
cool marble walls. He ushers us down the staircase back to the first-floor
landing. I’m expecting to head in the direction of the main foyer, but he
veers left down a hallway I hadn’t notice earlier. The hall is wide, it’s route
an intricately woven labyrinth of twists and turns straightening out into a
dimly lit antechamber.
The area leading to the adjoining archway is sunken, its only
accessible means are the few stairs that stretch from wall to wall. The
ground beneath me trembles as I brace my foot on the first step. My pulse
quickens with each subsequent movement, beating in tune with the rhythm
of the thundering roar from the room beyond. Standing below the daunting
archway, I brace myself for what’s to come.
The chamber is a mountainous expanse that puts even the Loft of
the Ruin to shame.
Not to mention absolutely brutal.
 The area is large, vaguely rectangular, and equipped to host
thousands. It, too, is a dimly lit, windowless space with torches as its sole
source of illumination. The air smells of sweat and blood, the ground
stained crimson in some areas. Chain attached manacles hang from the
walls at odd angles, weaponry tarnished with the blood of its victims in full
display alongside them. This is not a room of celebration or feasts, a room
of light and folly. It’s a sinister chamber fashioned for death saturated in
decay.
Its layout is similar to that of the Moon Hall, with a ground level
intended for the foot soldiers and a raised platform reserved for the Pack
rulers. However, unlike the Hall this platform runs along the expanse of the
entire rear wall and sits about ten feet higher. Most of the soldiers on the
ground level are howling, their eyes trained on the raised platform.
Spotting the legion from Krua near the front of the room, I set off in
their direction hauling Alek along behind me. I take the place beside Milos,
my eyes searching for the source of the uproar. I’m hoping it’s a spread of
some sort.
I’m starving, my hunger positively ravenous at this point.
“What’s going on?” I ask Milos. Out of the corner of my eye, I see
Zale approach, taking the spot next to Alek at my back.
“Not sure. Demonstration of some kind I’m guessing.”
“I hope-” I’m cut off mid-sentence by Sare.
“Jakobian wants you up there,” he says tugging my arm. My dread
paralyzes me, my muscles no longer functioning properly, as the realization
sinks in. There’s only one reason I’d be summoned to the Beta’s side, and I
can guarantee it isn’t for my charming personality.
“Lay off,” Zale intercedes, eyeing the grip on my arm. Sare’s
responding grunt is accompanied by a sneer. Digging his fingers in tighter,
he shoves me forward. “Fucking prick,” I hear Zale mutter before we lose
them in the crowd.
Sare continues pulling me along, his grip ironclad on the skin of my
arm. We walk along the perimeter of the room until we reach an old iron
ladder, his arms steering me forward motioning me to begin the climb. My
palms are sweaty beneath my gloves, my loose hair flowing down my back
warming the skin at my neck. I’m still in my traveling wear, my short
sleeves exposing the ink adorning my skin.
The platform is empty compared to the crowd at ground level.
Alpha Kaneous sits at the center of a long table facing the soldiers below.
The boy I’m assuming to be Silas sits at his right, Nicias to his left.
Jakobian is present as well, standing over the Alpha’s shoulder whispering
something in his ear. Roman is here too, seated on the other side of Nicias.
The man to Roman’s left I recognize as Beta Evander of Ressyx. I’d met
him once when I was a child while he visited my father in Nymphai. His
hair is ashen, the once black having dulled over the years, but his face
remains the same. Harsh, hallow cheeks sunken alongside thin lips pulled
back in a tight scowl. His eyes narrow at the sight of me.
The single other female on the platform, seated beside Silas, I
presume to be Beta Ophira of Bezarus. The Beta wears her hair clipped
short, it’s ends barely grazing the tips of her ears, the gold hue dulled and
flecked with grey. She, too, seems disgusted by my presence, her plump
features pulled into an unflattering grimace. The final face, the one seated at
the far end, I know without introduction. The smile he bears, the slouch of
his body, the choking arrogance he sports, this could only be Romulus
Anagus, my new admirer’s father and the appointed Beta of Nymphai.
My hands yearn for my blades, my fingers twitching to unsheathe
them. I ball them into fists just to keep from sending a dagger straight for
his eye. Jakobian looks my direction as I approach, his stare a promise of
mischief and carnage.
The sight makes me regret not having jumped from my tower
window.
“There she is,” Jakobian exclaims, abandoning his brother,
sauntering over to me. He slips an arm around my shoulder, my body
instantly shuddering in disgust. “May I introduce my most lethal Dire. My
lovely Ker, bringer of death and nightmares.”
My this, my that.
You’d think he bought me on sale at the local bazaar.
He gently leads me towards the front of the table. I look to
Roman searching, for what I have no idea, but his expression is blank and
unreadable, a vacant countenance haunting the contours of his face. We
come to a halt before Alpha Kaneous, leader of the Pack and high ruler of
Lyca.
The man I’m supposed to slay.
He’s looks older than I’d imagined, the harsh creases near his
eyes and mouth made prominent by the russet tint of his face. His skin is
leathered, hardened by years under the sun. Hair the hew of coffee dangles
freely down to his elbows. The raw muscle of his body is made evident by
the form hugging leather of his garment. The resemblance between him and
his older brother is uncanny, their features mirror images of one another, but
this close, it’s the eyes that differentiate the two. The Alpha’s eyes are a
shade of rich amethyst, a color usually reserved for the wild florae, with an
odd tender calmness about them. Whatever monster I was expecting the
Alpha of Lyca to be, this man certainly isn’t it, appearance wise
anyway.
“Welcome to Tairheia.” His gaze pensive as he takes me in.
My response hangs from my lips when a commotion from the
right pulls our attention elsewhere. Leading onto the platform from the side
opposite the ladder, lies an iron gate hidden in shadow. Wails echo from the
passage beyond, dulling the thundering roar from below. The cries grow
louder until their owner is shoved through the gate by a pair of capitol
guards.
The man’s face is hidden, clotted hair splattered across rotting
skin. He’s gaunt, his bones fully exposed under sagging flesh. His footprints
are loitered with blood, the fluid trickling down the gashes on his arms and
legs. The shackles binding his hands are tight, the skin beneath chaffed and
bruised. The smell encircling him is potent but all too familiar. The stench
of rot and infection. The aroma of death and decay.
“Ah, perfect timing,” Jakobian says, his voice chillingly chipper.
The guards roughly force the man to his knees near the platform ledge,
directly at my side in front of the filled table. They loop his chains through
a hook in the floor, locking him in place. My trepidation peaks as the
inevitable unfolds. “Silence!” he bellows unnecessarily across the already
quiet room, his voicing reverberating off the cool walls. He walks towards
the edge of the dais. “The man before you has been found guilty of sedition,
a traitor of the highest order. He was caught trying to smuggle contraband
into the Forsaken Lands.” The crowd boos in response, howling insults at
the man, while my heart plummets in my chest.
Merciful gods not this.
Anything but this.
“We all know the punishment for treason,” he continues, his voice
raising an octave. The rumble of the crowd grows, the soldiers working into
a bloodthirsty frenzy. “And my Ker of Krua, the myth made flesh, will be
the one to deliver it.”
I turn to Roman, my gaze a plea of salvation.
I’ve killed countless men back in the Kruan lands, flooded the
terrain with the fresh gore of my slays, but never like this. Never as a
spectacle of this magnitude, as a display of entertainment. The soldiers of
Krua may be brutal ruthless swine, but they’re no match for the savagery
permeating the air around me. The monsters in this chamber are a fusion of
the barbarity spread across Lyca. If they’re atrocious beasts within the
confines of their home territory, you can only imagine the destruction
they’ll reap when combined.
Roman offers me the slightest shake of head. There’s nothing I can
do, he seems to say. His eyes are remorseful, sullen, the softest I’ve ever
seen them.
But it doesn’t make a fucking difference.
I look away.
There’s no escape, no evading the order of my Beta. My damnation
set in stone.
Execute this man or die.
He doesn’t explicitly say this last part, but I know him well enough
by now to understand his terms, to realize the choice I’ve be given.
Kill or die.
Kill or let Iren die.
There really isn’t any choice to be made.
I step up to the man, unsheathing the mated blades in a single
smooth move. He peers up, his eyes now reduced to slits, but still there,
staring back at me. He doesn’t utter a word, his silence speaking volumes.
The plea in his gaze is unmistakable and excruciating. What I wouldn’t give
to have enough courage to thrust my blade through my own chest, pushing
until it hits bone, but I don’t.
I’m sorry, I try to convey the sentiment through my gaze but the
efforts fruitless. The words of a monster mean nothing when they cost you
your life.
I don’t waste a second more, intersecting my blades at the front of
his neck. I pull them across in one firm swipe, bestowing him a wicked red
smile. The warm liquid splatters my face and neck, the rest flowing freely
from the open wound. His head lulls back, expanding the gash to expose the
carnage I’ve reaped. His body slumps to floor in a bloody heap, along with
a chunk of my pathetic excuse for a soul.
The ovation is deafening, the pack of wolves hungry for more
bloodshed. I return each khopesh to their rightful place at my back and walk
towards the ladder. I keep my face neutral, void of any emotion, as I force
my legs to carry me closer to my escape. Roman has risen and is heading
towards my same destination. Reaching it ahead of me, he stands patiently
waiting with a single arm held out. I understand the gesture without
explanation.
Practically tearing the sheathe from my back, I thrust my bloody
blades at him. He takes them without comment, and I don’t care to see his
expression.
To our audience it may appear he’s confiscating them to ensure the
killing doesn’t rage on by my hand, but I know better. Roman knows I can’t
stand the sight of them. The gravity of their destruction weighs heavily on
my back and he’s offering to lighten the load.
The anarchy continues as I descend the ladder and make my way
across the expanse of the room. The soldiers part as I draw near, the smell
of carnage on my hands arousing their own violent cravings. I notice Alek
heading my way, but I wave him off.
I don’t want his company.
The only person I wish to see is the shamazine and his tools of ink
and death.

OceanofPDF.com
 CHAPTER 14
As I exit the foul chamber I break into a sprint, my feet carrying me down
hall after hall until I reach the familiar ground floor landing. I take off
through the foyer and out into the fresh air. I don’t have the slightest idea
where I’m heading, my only intention is finding the shamazine.
The shamazine is the artist who stains our skin. The man who takes
the horrendous deeds of the Dire and transforms them into grisly works of
ink and destruction. Each Dire is forced to receive a new stain whenever a
kill is made until every patch of skin below the chin is covered with the
black ink. The size of the marks is left to the mercy of the shamazine, while
the artwork itself is chosen personally by each Dire. Some select words to
tally their kills, others use numbers. A few, such as I, chose illustrations.
I know he’s somewhere around the grounds, probably hidden in a
far corner of the palace. I’m certain there’s no way Jakobian would have
left Krua without him. I search frantically, following the stoa around
towards the rear of the structure. The walkway is lively, the servants
wandering in and out of the palace getting ready for the start of the Trek. I
should ask someone where the shamazine has set up shop, but I don’t.
Instead, I wander the grounds unaccompanied, my mind foggy, my
limbs numb. The image of the nameless man’s crumpled body replays over
and over in my head. I want a bath, the splattered blood now dry and
cracking on my skin, but I’d never be able to wash clean. Not fully.
I turn another corner of the stoa, the path leading to another section
of the grounds, when I smack into a woman, the stack of volumes in her
arms crashing to the floor in a pile of scrolls and quills.
“I’m so sorry.” I reach down to help retrieve her load.
“Oh no, it was me. Once again piling my stack too high,” she
mumbles, grabbing a few of the tomes and quills.
When I hand her one of the larger texts, a Nymphian book on herb
remedies, she drops the load a second time. Her face pulls up in shock, her
breathing hitching ever so slightly. I take a step back not wanting to frighten
her. I’m almost positive her reaction has something to do with my violent
display from earlier. I’m anticipating a hasty retreat on her part and am
stunned when her face relaxes, a serene expression softening the worry
around her eyes.
“Oh, peachy gods. You look just like her,” she says, cupping my
cheeks in her palms. Usually, I’d flinch away from such an embrace, but the
kindness in her eyes, the tenderness in her touch, pulls at something deep
inside me.
“Who?”
“Your mother.” Her answer stops me short.
Taking a moment to regain my composure, I ask, my voice not
much more than a whisper, “You knew my mother?”.
“Of course, little wolf. I’m so sorry, how rude of me.” Taking a step
back, she continues. “Let me introduce myself. Neoma Biton, Grand
Archivist of Lyca, Keeper of Tomes and Scrolls.” Her face beams with
pride.
Neoma stands taller than I, a slender woman roughly Jakobian’s
age. Her hair is dark, pulled up high in a curly chignon. Her eyes are crystal
clear, the cobalt as the shocking as the ocean floor. The color itself is
remarkable, but it’s the pupil within that is really striking, the dark center
elongated, almost a complete oval resting in the center of her eye. Her thin
nose and straight brows hint of secrets, but her smile is nectar sweet. Her
accent is thick, unlike any I’ve heard prior. Her black attire is odd, the neck
high collar and wrist length sleeves out of place in weather such as this. The
evident bulge at the front of her chest suggests a modest pendant or
medallion hides beneath the fabric of her high collar.
“How did you know her?” I ask.
“I’ve done a lot of traveling over the years as Grand Archivist, met
a lot of the ruling families. She was a unique soul, your mother.” Her tone is
kind, genuine.
“You’re not originally from Lyca are you?” My curiosity besting
my curtesy.
“You’ve got quite the ear for tongues don’t you,” she clicks,
impressed.
“My father taught me.”
“Good man, that one. Great Beta. I’m sorry for your loss.” I’m
completely aghast, wholly stunned she would make comments such as
these. Even my words don’t escape as freely as hers. I don’t know who this
woman is, but I’ve already decided I could definitely learn to like Neoma
Biton.
“You wouldn’t know where the shamazine is by any chance?” I
quickly change the subject.
“Follow the garden trail down to the boat shed. The old cranks in
there.” She points to a set of steps through the florae, her tone a few beats
heavier than before. Evidently, she knows what I’ve been up to, understands
why I’m looking for him. “Enjoy your stay in Tairheia, Hypatia of
Nymphai. And if you need a friend, you come visit me. My lair is always
open for you, little wolf.” She gifts me a soft smile and a wink, before
starting off around the corner. “Library, third floor,” she calls over her
shoulder before I have time to ask.
I follow the trail with ease, the jagged rock steps ancient but
sturdy. They descend gradually down the slope of a hill at the rear of the
palace, the view overlooking the sea. There are hundreds of steps, the boat
shed a miniscule stone in the distance. The weather has cooled as the
approaching night lingers on the horizon, decorating the sky in a violent
mixture of auburn and violet. The view is breathtaking.
A steady cloud of smoke rises from the small chimney on the roof
of the shed, the faint aroma of cinnamon thickening the air. I can hear the
faint bustling of movement inside as I reach the shed. I don’t knock or
announce my arrival. There’s really no need.
“Welcome Kerita,” he greets, his back to the door. He’s hunched
over, looking through a box on the other end of the shed. His equipment,
chisel and ink, is already laid out on a table. “I was expecting you sooner.”
“I had a tough time finding you, Ajax.”
“But you found your way all the same.”
Ajax is a tiny man, my height, with a skull shiny as a marble. Half
of his snowy face is covered by a thick grey beard that hangs limply down
his chest. I imagine this is how my grandfathers might’ve looked had I ever
met one of them.
“So, what’ll it be?”
“Alpha’s seal of Tairheia.” He nods in understanding, undoubtedly
predicting my request. I lay face down atop the cot in the center of the
room, twisting my flowing hair up over my head, exposing the bare skin of
my neck. I don’t have many vacancies left, so the space under my left ear
will have to do.
He sets to work straight away, the rhythm of his chisel scrapping
away yet another section of my soul, crudely discarding it into the depths of
Tartarus, leaving a black dye in its place.
I’ll never forget my first marking, the first stain Ajax etched upon
my skin.
-------------------------------------
It was shortly after I made my deal with Jakobian. The Kruan
convoy was traveling south, back towards their home territory. We had set
up camp for the evening on the outskirts of Kwaharz, a small mining town
near the Kruan border, and were set to finish the final stretch of our journey
in the morning. It was twilight, the sun slowly forsaking me to the darkness.
Roman and I were engaged in our usual dance of steel, honing a new
technique for taking on larger opponents, when I saw him riding into camp.
Haemon Vidar.
Former emissary to the late Beta of Tairheia.
Newest emissary to Beta Marxus Jakobian.
The traitorous little fuck had the audacity to ride atop my father’s
prized stallion.
I was going to kill him. I was going to rip out his treacherous
insides and feed them to my father’s steed. I start in his direction but don’t
make it more than a few steps when Roman halts me by the arm.
“You can’t,” he says, my murderous intentions transparent.
“I want a word with Jakobian,” I answer, keeping my brewing rage
in check.
Surprisingly, the Beta agreed to my exchange with little convincing
on Roman’s part. It was late evening when he invited me over to his tent. I
had trouble locating him upon entering, his form slouched over in a chair,
lids heavy with exhaustion.
“What is it?” His tone drenched in annoyance.
“I seek permission to kill Emissary Vidar.” He sits up at this, his
eyes alight with interest.
“You wish to kill my newest emissary? And why would I allow such
a thing?” I can hear the tease in his voice.
“He’s the snake who betrayed my father for the promise of power.
He’d do the same to you if the price was right.”
“So, your request is purely for my benefit?” The corners of his
mouth twitch upward, teasing the remnants of a smile.
“No. He’s one of those responsible for putting my parents in their
graves. I’d like to return the favor.” His smile broadens in what oddly
appears to be pride.
“You should have led with that. Truth be told, I’d been dying to
carry out the deed myself, but I’ve been saving it for this very occasion. I
thought you’d might enjoy the small reprisal.”
Knowing Jakobian anticipated this meeting, predicted my violent
request, unnerves me. The thought that Jakobian might know the lethal
fraction of my persona intimately is repulsive, but I bite down my disgust.
“Can I kill him or not?”
“Of course, if you’ll allow me to watch.”
You’d think we’d been discussing a babe’s birth his beam is so
large.
A single nod seals our arrangement, that one selfish act branding
my fate.
Vidar never saw my knife coming as I plunged it down into the
center of his back.
“You deserved far worse,” I whispered, twisting the hilt. “May
Hades have his way with your worthless soul.”
-------------------------------------
Ajax gave me my first stain that night, a howling wolf designed in
the silhouette of a crescent moon, the mark carved into the inner flesh of my
right wrist.
The sigil of my Nymphai.
The sight of it now, drowning among the dark ink of my other
deeds, fills me with shame.
What would my father think of me now? What would Kai think?
“Finished. Care to have a look?” Ajax attempts to hand me a mirror.
“No, thanks,” I respond waving it off, “I trust you work.”
“Course you do. Don’t tell the others,” he whispers, leaning in
close. “But your canvas is my greatest masterpiece.” His eyes are soft, his
face radiant with pride. His sentiment isn’t meant to be cruel, but he doesn’t
seem to understand the weight of his words. He doesn’t realize the price
paid in blood for his masterpiece.
“Night, Ajax.” With that I leave him, heading towards the door.
The air is nippy, the night fully upon us, as I take the path back to
the palace. My feet feel heavy, my dusty boots encased in lead, as I make
each grueling step up the stairway. The pain at my neck is minor but
constant, a dull burn, a relentless reminder of the day’s earlier deed.
The light from the stoa is a stark contrast to the dark of the
garden, each torch flickering in unison to the eerie chorus of the ethereal.
The caryatids seem to shadow me as I follow my previous course back to
the main entrance. The palace grounds are rambunctious at this time of
night, the uncouth soldiers spilling out of the foyer into the courtyard, each
clutching goblets of wine or ale.
I notice that many of the Dire are among the attendees, most
mingling with the soldiers from the foreign territories. The disappointments
overwhelming when I don’t notice Alek among them. I’m desperately
hoping he’s off somewhere with a new acquaintance, maybe one of the
young women of the palace.
I can’t stomach the thought of company.
I’m not sure how much time has passed by the time I complete
my trek up to my quarters. My limbs feel gelatinous when my foot braces
the top floor landing. The shadow at the end of the hall halts me mid-stride.
I pause, blatantly aware I’m lacking my most lethal weapons, but the figure
leaning against my chamber door isn’t one of my numerous foes.
His hair is disheveled, his scruff rougher than usual giving him a
more rugged appearance. He doesn’t look up right away, his eyes trained at
the floor, but I know he senses my arrival. Stepping aside as I draw near, I
fumble with the lock on the door behind him.
“You can come in if you want,” I tell him upon entering. With a
brief hesitation he follows suit, hovering awkwardly near the doorway.
Roman’s never been inside my quarters down in the Pit. He’s
braced the threshold a few times when summoning me but has never taken
that final step inside. Having him in here now, despite the sheer look of
anguish I’ve decided not to take personally, feels reassuring. An accolade
earned by enduring the gale.
“I’m here to return these.” He leans my double sheathe on a nearby
chair.
“How long were you waiting?”
“Hour or so.” His words lack any hint of anger or irritation.
“You could’ve left them outside.”
“I needed to see you,” are the words that follow. I turn back to look
at him to get a read on his face, but his gaze is fixated elsewhere. “You
don’t have to run in the morning. Take the time to rest.”
“I don’t need rest,” I bark, “I’m running with or without you.” My
words get his attention, his expression as guarded as ever.
“Ok,” he finally answers. “Meet me in the courtyard. We’ll set off
before first light.”
“Thank you.” He seems to have something to add but deciding
better of it, heads right out the door without a second thought.
I bolt the lock behind him while retrieving my mated blades. My
stomach drops at the thought of uncovering that crimson-stained steel, but
they need to be cleaned, sharpened, and polished before I can rest.
I gather my equipment and head into the bathing chamber eager to
complete my task as quickly as possible. I’ve only unsheathed my first
blade a quarter of the way when I notice the sleek metal, glossy and free of
the day’s gore. I check to find its mate equally gleaming, the two just as
luminous and deadly as the day I received them. Returning them to their
cover, I lean the sheath against the bathing room sink, thankful to be rid of
them for the evening.
Stripping down, I take the longest soak of my life. With scalding
water, I rub my flesh raw until pockets of rosy skin peep up at me through
the black ink. After toweling off I crawl atop the covers unclad, leaning my
sheathed freshly polished blades against the bedside stand. I keep the
windows open, allowing the feeble breeze access to my flushed skin.
I know Hypnos won’t be visiting me this evening, the God of Sleep
having disregarded me with the rest of them, so I spend my hours lost in
thought, enthralled in fantasies of golden-haired boys and running wolves.
But as with most nights, my fantasies are short lived and soon the
nightmares take root, sprouting through my mind like the limbs of an
oak.
 CHAPTER 15
I spend the remainder of the night tossing and turning, trying to keep the
nightmares at bay. Though dawn arrives with great haste it still doesn’t
seem fast enough, the hours dwindling by lethargically. I get ready earlier
than necessary, an unexpected restlessness gnawing at my exhausted limbs.
Anticipating a warm outing, even at this hour, I throw on my lightest item
of clothing, a sleeveless tunic I reserve only for the mildest Kruan days. I
elect against bringing my blades, their presence still revolting, deciding on
two small daggers in either boot instead.
I hurry down the tower steps, my feet itching for a new course to
run. The halls are deserted except for the occasional servant carrying trays
of fruit or bowls of oxygala to various chambers in the palace. I snatch a
handful of grapes from one of the trays on my way out into the courtyard,
my feet flying down the last remaining steps.
I’m not surprised to find Roman waiting, back to me, his body
stretched into a deep lunge. He’s shirtless, his stained back glistening with
perspiration, the muscles straining with each movement. I don’t realize I’m
staring until an annoyingly familiar voice at my side mentions it.
“Quite the view,” my new friend from Nymphai says, her eyes
heavy with lust, “but you knew that already. I’m sure you’ve seen far more
than this.”
“Right, yeah. I spend all my free time staring at my CO naked.”
My tone is light, sardonic.
“Between beheadings, I’m sure.” Her vicious smile butchers my
good mood. I’m a heartbeat away from reaching down into my boot for my
hidden surprise when Roman’s voice carries across the yard.
“Peia.” A warning.
“It’s Frona by the way, in case he asks.” Her audacity is
astonishing, I almost laugh.
“Pooda was it? I’ll be sure to pass that along. Between beheadings
of course.” I saunter down the stairs, a new perk to my step, pleased by her
new-found scowl.
“What was that about?” Roman asks.
“Just discussing how you’d look naked. I thought it’d be mind-
blowing, but she wasn’t convinced.” I pause, waiting for a smile that never
appears. “She’ll probably try and jump you in your sleep, so you’d best be
on alert before you end up with that Lamia in your bed.”
After a few smile-less seconds he says, “If she really does eat
children, maybe you’re the one who should be on alert. Considering your
size, she might just confuse you.”
I’m almost speechless.
“By the gods, Roman. Did you just say a joke?” I can’t contain my
amused beam. Without retuning it, he quickly changes the subject.
“The route I’ve planned out is longer than the mountain trail at
home, so we better get going.”
Krua isn’t my home, I want to tell him, but I keep my mouth shut.
I follow him back up the steps and along the stoa towards the rear
of the palace. He branches off towards the boat shed but takes a hard right
through the garden, venturing along a trail I hadn’t noticed the night before.
We come to a halt near a mound of old boulders, the heap marking our start
down into a ravine. I step forward to get a better look at our course.
“We’re running downhill?” The disappointment in my words
obvious.
“We have to go down before we can go up.” His breath grazes the
nape of my neck, skimming over the sensitive area of my newest mark. I
shudder at the contact, surprised to find him so close. “And believe me,
you’ll be begging me to carry you by the time we’re finished.” He sets off
at a run into the foliage, his feet carrying him farther away. My
competitiveness gets the better of me and I instantly take off in a sprint,
following him down the path into the strange terrain.
Roman was right. What started out as a slight descent into a pebble
ridden portion of the ravine, gradually levels out until transforming into a
full fledge hillside. Though the morning was still young, the greenery slick
with dew, already my face is warming, the initial beads of sweat escaping
from every pore. This run wasn’t going to be anything like the ones back in
Krua.
Roman maintains a steady lead on the downhill slope, but the
weather must be affecting him as well because his pace soon slows
drastically, allowing me an opportunity to surpass him. We continue our
uphill trek until the trail levels out a stretch. When the route takes one final
dip into a new section of the ravine, my new-found respect for the nymphs
of the forest multiplies tenfold.
 The bumpy dirt path is stable, the years of heavy foot traffic having
cemented it into the earth securing its place in the world forever, but the
radiance permeating on either side, encroaching on the trail itself, is a spirit
all its own. During the first long stretch, lemony snapdragons encase the
path of either side, the bright blossoms snapping at me with each step. I
plunge right through them, allowing each unique stem to grace my flesh,
leaving tiny sunshine petals in their wake.
Once past the gilded garden the trail widens out, flowing freely
beneath an archway of greenery, the cool embrace of the bordering trees. As
I ascend farther up the hill, I’m forced to halt as the trail comes to a fork.
The running path is obvious, the long dirt path seemingly endless, but it’s
the new thinner trail that beckons me.
Buds of vibrant violet and smooth sapphire stalks overflow into the
narrow lane, almost obstructing the trail entirely. The familiar aroma of
honeysuckle and jasmine transports me to a time of the past, a scene filled
with spilt nectar and giddy laughter by the river’s edge, drawing me deeper
along the enchanted path. A sharp thorn catches my elbow attempting to
thwart my curiosity, but my tread remains steady.
The path continues a few more meters through the fern until
tapering off into an overrun meadow. At first glance it would appear the
meadow’s forsaken, a green terrain as rough and untamed as the adjacent
sea, but a few patient steps farther reveal the true gem hiding among the
florae.
Pass an army of junipers, a throng of crocus, hidden beneath the
fallen branches of an old willow, dwells a petite decrepit temple. Even
though the pillars at the front are splintered, cracking under the weight of
the ancient stone arches, and the roof is half caved in, it’s still an entity of
beauty.
As if bewitched I advance towards the ruin in a trance, my feet
gliding up the ramshackle steps shrouded in a cage of moss and invading
tree roots. Crouching below one of the toppled pillars, I carefully slink my
way inside the murky structure. Wild ivy slithers from the stoa pillars into
the depths of the temple, creeping up the length of each of the walls, along
what’s left of the ceiling, condemning any remaining essence of life to this
ancient tomb. The dust from the temple is dense, layer upon layer taking up
residence in my already fatigued lungs.
After allowing my eyes a moment to adjust to the darkness, the
torches’ flames long since burnt out, I notice the large symbol carved into
the center of the back wall. Compared to the size of the temple, the carving
just about envelops the entire structure.
“Knot of Hercules,” Roman says. I jump at the sound. “Seems
you’ve found the Loutra. The temple of marriage ceremonies. Couples
would come here on their wedding days for their ceremonial baths.”
“I know what it is,” I snap. “We had one in Nymphai. Until the raid
that is,” I add, pointedly.
“Jakobian burnt the Kruan Loutra to ashes. He said it was a waste
of precious training space.”
“Beta Jakobian wreaking devastation upon sacred land? I’m
shocked.” I turn, half expecting to find him glaring, but his eyes are to the
floor, his brows furrowed intensely. He rakes a hand through his sweaty
hair, the other scratching along the scruff of his chin. I sense something
plaguing him.
“I didn’t know about the execution,” he says finally. I’m shocked,
stunned into silence, until the levee breaks and my shame swells at the
memory.
“Doesn’t matter. You couldn’t have stopped it anyway.”
“Yes, it does,” he states, meeting my gaze. “I would’ve warned you,
Peia.” The regret in his voice is so unlike the Roman I’ve come to know it
almost frightens me. “I had no idea what you were walking into until it was
too late.”
“Doesn’t matter,” I repeat. “It’s getting late. We should finish the
run.”
I rush from the temple, back towards the running trail, desperate to
put some distance between myself and the defeated look in his eyes.
The second part of the trail is just as stunning as the first, with
lively underbrush and flamboyant stalks as far as the eye can see, but it’s far
more brutal. The mountain run of Krua might be far greater in distance, but
it’s nothing in comparison to the torment that is this trek. There isn’t a
single section of the path that goes untouched by the wilderness around it,
with rabid thorns and jagged branches stretching out across the lane,
scrapping at my unveiled flesh.
The sun is farther along on its journey since this morning, the entire
expanse sweltering from the raging heat. My skin is drenched with sweat,
the flowing moisture soaking my tunic, plastering it to my body like a
second skin. The area at the rear of my throat feels raw, a dry ashen taste
lining the sum of my mouth.
I’m not sure how much further the trail goes, the brilliant terrain
seemingly boundless, but I refuse to stop, refuse to give into my body’s plea
for rest. I need this feeling, this unbearable anguish, I crave it with every
fiber of my being. For this isn’t something I do for Roman or Jakobian, it’s
something I do for me. I push myself to the brink, pounding away the
infinite miles, because I have the drive to finish, the capacity to endure. I
could fight an entire room of soldiers and never feel as powerful as I do
when I reach the end of a grueling run. Running is the single solitary time I
ever truly feel free.
I recognize the end when I see it, the vegetation transitioning
seamlessly into a plain of rock and sand overlooking a steep cliff. Though I
can’t see the view just yet, I can smell the salt in the air, hear the waves
crashing against the cliffside.
I begin inching my way closer to the edge, ready to take in the view
for myself, when I hear the pattering of footfalls behind me. Roman’s
wheezing, gasping for breath, when he finally reaches me.
“Are you alright?” I ask rushing to him. He’s hunched over with his
hands on his knees, his breathing forced and erratic. When his response
isn’t forthcoming, I start to panic, dread seeping into every pore threatening
to drown me with it. “Roman,” I cry, kneeling before him in the dirt to get a
clear glimpse of his face. I don’t even recognize my own voice it’s so high
and uneven.
“I’m- fine,” he pants, waving me off. I’m overflowing with relief at
the sound of his voice, I throw my arms around his hunched over figure,
almost knocking both of us to the ground. “Peia-,” he starts but I fling
myself off him realizing my mistake. I’m not eager for a lecture about
personal boundaries.
“Sorry,” I say, sheepishly turning away from him. I walk the few
remaining feet to the cliff’s edge and gaze out across the sea, basking in the
breathtaking view.
“I’m sorry, Peia.” His voice still hoarse but his breathing having
leveled out.
“Roman, I already told you-,” I start.
“No, Peia,” hurries Roman, cutting me off. Now back to his
towering height, his stands before, the toes of our boots almost kissing.
“I’m sorry for the life I’ve damned you to.” I stiffen, every muscle rigid
with tension. I’m not even wholly sure I’m breathing anymore.
Roman never opens up like this, never discusses matters with me
beyond fighting and staying alive.
In the beginning, I did blame Roman for everything. The raid, my
sister’s capture, my brothers’ deaths, the deal with Jakobian; all of these
were Roman’s fault. Looking back now, each one of these things falls on
Jakobian or me and my choices. Even my current predicament, my new
assassination task, is my doing because once again I chose to make a deal
with a monster
“What are you talking about? This isn’t on you,” I tell him honestly.
“It is. I convinced Jakobian you’d make a good Dire. I’m the one
who suggested-” he continues, but now it’s my turn to cut him off.
“I could’ve said no, Roman. I could’ve taken Jakobian’s deal and
thrown it right back in his face, but I didn’t. I was a coward, a weakling too
afraid to die.”
“No,” he pushes. “Do you remember the night we first met, the way
you fought for your sister? The way you gave everything to save her?”
“That wasn’t for her,” I push back. “It was for me. I couldn’t bear
to live in a world without her, so I caved. And honestly, sometimes I wonder
if maybe we both would’ve been better off just being executed.” My voice
trembles, my eyes beginning to swell. The look on Roman’s face at my
confession could only be described as devastation, my words invoking a
physical reaction. Before I can question it, the look is gone, my cold Roman
returned to his natural state of stone.
“Don’t demean your sacrifices, Hypatia.” A stern reprimand. Since
we’re on the subject, I decide to ask him something that’s plagued me since
that night all those years ago.
“Why did you try so hard to save me?”
“I don’t know what you mean.” A statement he seems to invoke a
lot these days.
“You pulled your punches that night during our fight. You were
holding back, and we both know it.” I don’t expect him to answer, his face
having reverted to its standard closed off expression. I’m astonished when
he begins to speak.
“I’d never seen someone fight so hard to live, do the unthinkable to
save someone they loved. I did what I did for me, Peia. I needed you to
survive because I, too, am a selfish being.”
I take a moment, allow Roman’s words to sink in. In all the time
I’ve known him we’ve never discussed the past, never spoken so intimately
about that night in the Forsaken Lands, the night we met.
We allow the silence to stretch on, each of us too wrapped up in our
own thoughts to say much. After a few minutes I creep to the cliffs shelf,
the ground jagged and uneven beneath my feet, and throw my arms out
wide, mimicking an eagle poised for flight. The oceanic breeze ruffles the
dampened fabric of my tunic, gliding freely over my sweat slicked skin.
“Pondering jumping?” quips Roman, taking his own place at the
cliff’s ledge.
“Pondering shoving you off,” I joke, my laugh a hollow sound.
“No, just enjoying the sight. We don’t have views like this back in Krua.” I
turn offering a tight, toothless grin.
“I disagree,” he answers, our eyes locking. His face is still, his
features relaxed, free of their usual aggravation.
Roman’s own personal version of a smile.
The expression is more telling than words could ever be.
“We should get going,” he says after a beat. “We have to get ready
for the Feast tonight and it’s a long way back.”
“The Feast,” I reply entrancedly, rolling the word over my tongue
like a fine wine.
“You’ll appreciate it. Mountains of sweet cakes and enough ale to
drown the Ruin twice over.” My face must betray my excitement for he
adds, “Thought I might get that reaction.”
“What are we sulking around here for?” I call over my shoulder as I
start my hasty retreat down the trail. “Dastardly levels of drunkenness
await.”

OceanofPDF.com
 CHAPTER 16
After numerous breaks and a few shoving matches, we make it back to the
palace garden in one piece. The trip back took the two of us twice as long
even though the majority of it runs downhill. I guess neither of us was too
keen on returning to the warrior ridden grounds.
Our running trail was barren compared to the palace garden.
Soldiers from rival territories are clustered about the yard sparring with one
another, beating each other to a pulp. Not wishing to participate in the
world’s grandest pissing contest, I head up to my chamber.
The climb is excruciating, my legs protesting each step onward. I
allow myself to imagine finally reaching the landing, entering a nice cool
chamber, taking a long cool bath. My plans are momentarily shelved when I
hear a murmur on the other side of my chamber door. Pushing the old oak
open, I’m not surprised by the uninvited guest.
“What in the gods’ name are you wearing?” I demand, words
muffled by laughter. Alek’s taken to admiring himself at the floor length
mirror by the window, clad in a new uniform. The sleeveless, skintight
assemble hugging all the right places.
“New uniform for the Trek. Apparently, it’s supposed to help
combat the heat.”
“It’s leather,” I choke out unable to regain any semblance of
poise.
“Laugh all you want, Jakobian sent one for you too,” he says,
pointing towards a leather bundle on the bed. Sure enough, when held up
the small mound of fabric converts into a uniform like Alek’s though
modified in its design. After taking a quick scrub I slip into it, tugging and
yanking, wondering where the rest of it went.
“Why the hell does mine have a huge chunk missing from the
front?” I turn to Alek, tracing the deep v cut of the leather top that runs from
shoulder to naval, exposing the tall sycamore inked between both breasts.
The tree runs along the midline, branching out over the arc of my bust. “It’s
barely keeping anything in place. I throw one overzealous punch and the
entire world catches a glimpse of these babies.” I say, cupping my bosom.
“What a fine glimpse that’d be.” Alek inches closer, running his
finger down the length of the cut, sending shudders all the way down to my
southern region.
“I’m not wearing this shit.” I start reaching for the material at my
shoulder when he stops me, turning my face away from him. He begins
lacing up the straps at my back, fastening me into this leathery snare.
“You have to wear it to the Feast tonight, Pei. Jakobian’s orders.”
“Oh, piss off.”
“Lovely as always.” His breath tickles my neck, his lips planting
a chaste kiss at my cheek. “That reminds me,” he says, heading towards the
small desk along the wall. “You missed breakfast and lunch has been
cancelled due to the Feast.” He returns, offering me a platter of food.
The growling commences at the glorious sight, my hunger now a
corporeal being finally remembering it hasn’t been fed. I inhale the entire
plate in a few short minutes.
“Is there more?” Food spurts out everywhere at the question, my
mouth filled to the brim.
“That was three servings worth of food. Even I ate less than that,
you insatiable girl.” I merely shrug. I’m contemplating suggesting we go
hunt down some additional sweet cakes when there’s a rap at the door.
“Is it Sare again? When’s that old ghoul going to croak and put
the rest of us out of our misery.” Alek makes no move to answer instead
plopping down atop the bed. I’m still laughing as I walk across the room.
Opening the door, I find Roman standing there, a small parcel clenched in
his left hand, an old sack in the other.
“Roman.” I can’t mask my surprise, a dazed smile spreading
across my features. I bow out of the doorway allowing him access into my
chamber. His expression turns somber at the sight of Alek who’s leaped
from his position on my bed, shifting to stand at attention by its post. I’ve
managed to creep onto the bed unnoticed, leaning my head against a fist,
enjoying the scene of machismo unfolding.
“Commander Jakobian.” I can’t remember the last time Alek has
sounded so serious, his demeanor impressively soldier-like. I barely contain
my snort.
“Dismissed,” Roman declares harshly. I notice the subtle shift in
Alek’s performance, the clench of his fists, the way his jaw tenses at the
command.
“Yes, sir.” Alek’s halfway to the door when he adds defiantly, “I’ll
come pick you up in an hour, Pei.” He exits the room without so much as a
second look at Roman, slamming the door behind him.
“Subtlety, another one of your strong suits Roman, along with
compliments and smiling. If I didn’t know better, I’d say you almost seem
jealous.” I’m now gazing through slits, studying him pensively.
“I’ve brought you something,” Roman responds, sidestepping my
accusation like the master evader he is.
“Roman Jakobian, bearer of gifts for the damned. as a nice ring
to it doesn’t it?” I’m not sure what’s come over me, but I decide to reign in
my good humor before it gets me in trouble. “Okay, sorry. What is it?” I
bound off the bed to where Roman’s standing, laying my palms out in front
of him.
“This one wasn’t my doing.” With an expression I’d almost
describe as apologetic, he hands me the satchel first. I tear open the sack,
pouring its contents onto the bedspread. A complex looking contraption of
straps and leather topples out of the sack. It takes me a moment to make out
the item.
“A new sheath?”
“From Jakobian. He wants this to replace your old one.”
“My old ones just fine.” I don’t hesitate to hand the device back to
Roman. Truth be told, my old one is fraying and tattered in most areas, but I
couldn’t stomach the idea of parting with a gift from Roman.
“Beta’s orders.” He raises his hands in mock surrender when I
begin to argue. “You’ll understand when you strap it on”
I slide the sheath across my back, through the arm holes, fastening
the thin straps at the hook near my navel. Roman nods towards the mirror,
encouraging me to take a peek. Everything looks normal from the backside,
the sheath made of durable leather, but it’s when I catch a glimpse of the
front that my blood boils, my cheeks flushing in rage.
Damn Jakobian do the depths of Tartarus, the insufferable bastard.
For it isn’t merely the new sheath that’s maddening, it’s the entire
ensemble. The low cut of my top is made even more prominent by the tight
leather straps of my new gift. The skintight fabric clings to the curvature of
my body from calves to shoulders. I more closely resemble a lustfully
desperate conquest of Pan’s than a capable soldier.
“You’re kidding, right? I’m not wearing this shit.”
“Peia-”
“I’m guessing your uniform is just as modest, leathery straps and
all.”
“I know, Peia, I get it. But he was adamant about it. It’s just for the
Trek, afterward you can burn the damn thing.” I want to continue arguing,
strip down to my bare flesh and fling the thing in Roman’s face. Maybe
even force him to try it on. The thought of him attempting to squeeze into
the ridiculous getup triggers a giggle.
“Something amusing?” The corners of his mouth perk up just a
hint.
“Just picturing you wearing it. It’ll look good, really accentuate
your assets.”
“Survive the Trek and I’ll try it on, just for you.” I’m almost too
stunned for words.
“Was that a joke? Did Roman Jakobian just attempt another joke?”
I’m beaming now, my cheeks aching from the expression. “That’s twice in
one day, Roman. Pace yourself.” The sneaky CO of mine knows just how to
brighten my mood. “And you better believe I’m going to hold you to that.”
Roman just stares and in that expression, I swear I find a smile in
his eyes.
“The sacrifice is at dusk, the Feast directly following in the Moon
Hall.” I wince as if slapped when he mentions the sacrifice. Noticing the
grimace, he adds, “Skip the sacrifice and just head straight to the Feast.”
I nod. He heads towards the door, whirling at the last second.
“I almost forgot.” He slowly hands me the small parcel.
Probably matching leather undergarments.
I open the package hesitantly, my fingers fearful of what they might
discover. Inside the small box is the most elaborate sweet cake I’ve ever
beheld. It’s molded into the shape of a tulip, powdery sugar sprinkled atop
the glistening maple coating.
“My brother shoved one of these in my face once. Took me hours
to pry the glaze out of my hair.”
“Valakai?” I wince at the sound of my brother’s name. Anyone
else would have lost an eye for even mentioning my eldest brother.
“Eon, the youngest,” I clarify.
 “How did you retaliate?”
“Why do you assume I sought retribution?” I ask innocently. He
cocks an eyebrow giving me a sardonic look. “I made him eat dirt.” I look
up at him sheepishly. “But I took a whipping for it.” My laugh rings
triumphant as air rushes from his nose like the breathings of a dragon.
I’m tallying that as a laugh.
“Sweet girl,” he quips. “Was he angry with you?”
“Eon? Never. We were closer than ever after that.” Thinking of
my youngest brother hurts more than split flesh or burnt skin, a pain so
unlike any other. “Thank you, Roman. I love it.” I keep my voice low
fearing it might crack.
“You’re welcome, Hypatia.” I’m anticipating a smile, practically
balancing on the tips of my toes waiting, when once again I’m left
disappointed. “Don’t be late.” His command lingers as his form retreats into
the hall.
Alek returns to my chamber shortly after Roman’s departure.
Since he intends on attending the sacrifice, I send him off ahead, agreeing
to meet up with him in the Moon Hall for the Feast. I pull my hair up at the
crown of my head, letting my long braid dangle between my shoulder
blades, allowing the escaped strands to fall where they may around my face.
At an hour past dusk, slinging on my new sheath, I decide to head down for
the Feast.
The halls are swarming with soldiers and pack relatives by the
time I make it downstairs. The antechamber leading to the Moon Hall is
swamped with people trying to enter. Five large bowls line the Hall’s
entrance. My stomach clenches at the recognition of their contents but I
approach one nevertheless, dipping three fingers into the crimson liquid.
It’s customary that for every feast, across every territory in Lyca,
each attendee must perform the Blood Honor. The Blood Honor is the
symbolic smearing of blood across one’s mouth symbolizing the hunt of the
wolf. In Nymphai, my mother insisted we use animal blood solely, but I
don’t think that’s the case here in the capitol. I wouldn’t be surprised in the
least if the bowls here tonight were filled with the blood of the slain
sacrifice.
Retracting my fingers from the gore, I rake them across my face
from the left corner of my mouth down to my collarbone, leaving bloody
streaks behind. Though it may seem like overkill, my three slashes are
nothing in contrast to the sickening appearance of some of the others
around me. One soldier from Ressyx looks to have smothered every inch of
his face with the blood. Repulsed, I maneuver around the crowd to enter the
hall, intent on putting some distance between myself and the blood-soaked
warrior.
Thinking back on my first night here, the Hall might has well
have been in shambles compared to the extravagance of it this evening. The
morose torches along the walls have been snuffed out, replaced by delicate
lanterns strung from wall to wall in intricately crossed patterns. Facing
towards the dais, the ground floor has been crammed with benches and
magnificent oak tables overflowing with a spread large enough to feed the
realm. The elegant dining table resting atop the dais is a leviathan, the
borders jewel encrusted, the chairs infused with gold. The ruling pack
members are already seated and bloodied, chatting amongst themselves.
I’m trapped in a sea of black and ruby, my height hindering my
view of the room’s other occupants. I’m deliberating jumping up on one of
the benches to look for Alek when a hand taps my shoulder, beckoning me
to turn.
“Greetings, love,” Javan purrs, half his faced smeared with gore.
“I was hoping I’d run into you.”
“Interesting. And here I was hoping you’d died in your sleep,” I
answer sweetly.
“Is this how you address all your admirers?”
“Just the ones I favor most.” I shoot him a wink for good
measure.
“You’ve got a mouth on you don’t you, Ker?” His eyes glisten
maliciously. “I must admit, love, after that grisly display last night, I’ve
never wanted someone more.” His accompanying leer is unsightly, his eyes
ogling over my uncovered sycamore.
“Uncleanly and moronic really isn’t my thing,” I mutter, using the
opportunity to escape into the crowd. I don’t make it five feet before
catching sight of Alek leaning against a side wall.
“Where’ve you been?” I ask once he’s within earshot. The blood
on his face runs from lower lip down to the front of his neck.
“Looking for you. Krua’s table is over there.” He points to one of
the crowded tables in the center of the room. The idea of sitting alongside
Bastien and Scabs is about as enticing as boar wrestling, but I can’t ignore
the hunger clawing away at my innards.
Taking a seat between Alek and Absinthe, I pile my plate with as
much food as it can hold. Steaming fish smothered in a thick savory chili
sauce, broth infused vegetables, warm herb crusted bread fresh from the
oven. I’m reaching for a larger piece of bread when Zale approaches the
bench, cramming into the space between Absinthe and myself.
“Was that really necessary?” Alek asks over my head.
“What?” Zale counters, his voice the epitome of innocence.
I’ve only managed a single bite when a tap at my shoulder halts my
fork midflight.
“What is it, Roman?” I don’t even attempt to mask my
annoyance. He shares an unreadable look with Zale before responding.
“Your presence has been requested at the high table.” My stomach
lurches, all traces of hunger vanishing at these few words. Please, not
another execution, I pray. “Not by Jakobian,” he adds under his breath. This
settles my stomach slightly, though a different kind of unease takes hold.
I shadow Roman up the dais steps, careful to keep close at his
heels. The view of the Hall looks so different from up here, I can
understand why the Pack rulers insist on sitting above their soldiers. Roman
takes a seat at the far end of the table motioning me to take the seat beside
him. We’re sitting directly across Alpha Kane’s sons with Jakobian seated
to Roman’s other side at one head of the table.
“Good evening, Peia. You look ravishing this tonight,” says the
man I assume to be Silas. He offers me a charming smile while his brother
won’t even look me in the eye. “I’m so pleased Roman could persuade you
to join us.”
Like I had a choice.
“Well, Roman’s got quite the way with words.” Silas chuckles
softly and I could swear Roman attempts to kick me under the table, failing
miserably, hitting a wooden leg instead.
“I was very impressed with your exhibition last night.” His tone is
still pleasant, but his demeanor has shifted, the look in his eyes changing
ever so subtly. At this remark Roman stirs, thrusting a goblet into my palm,
his own hand lingering a tad too long. I take a long slow gulp, savoring the
tangy tasting liquid. I notice from the corner of my eye Jakobian observing
our exchange musingly.
“What is this?” I probe leaning towards Roman.
 “Palayian wine,” Silas interjects, “Tairheian specialty.” I finish
the remaining wine in a few deep swigs tilting my goblet towards Roman
for a replenishment, but it’s Silas who leans over the table instead. “Allow
me.” I reluctantly offer him my cup, setting it back down near my plate
without taking another sip.
“Your weapons are extraordinary. I’ve never seen anything like
them. May I handle one?” Silas tests, a wolfish grin marring his features.
“I don’t think that’s wise. They’re volatile things, don’t take well
to strangers.” I expect this to piss him off, but he just seems more
interested. Even Jakobian is smiling somewhat, in that pleasantly psychotic
manner of his. Roman goes taut beside me, his breathing hitching in the
slightest.
“Oh, the fun we’d have,” Silas purrs, leering. “Don’t suppose you
could spare her this evening Uncle, send her my way for the night?”
His comment enrages me, my hand twitching for a weapon.
Roman casually moves my goblet out of reach before I toss it in someone’s
face. My eyes dart to Jakobian, waiting for his response. He eyes me
carefully, no doubt weighing the options in his mind.
“You’d have to ask her,” he finally answers. “Her evenings are
hers to spend as she pleases.”
“What do you say, Ker? Allow me to show you another side of
Lyca?” His eyes dance with malicious delight, slowly letting the charming
mask of his slip.
“I think I’ve seen my fair share already.” His eyes narrow, his
expression flaring so suddenly I’m convinced the male’s unhinged.
“Why you think you can deny a Grey Commander is beyond me,”
he spouts arrogantly. “Perhaps I’ll simply meet you in your chambers, so
you can repay my generosity.”
Not taking kindly to threats I reach over my shoulder for a blade,
but Roman stalls my arm. I gape at him incredulously but he’s eyes remain
fixed on Silas.
“I’m afraid you’ll have to continue purchasing your women,
Silas,” he states, “This one’s mine.” He moves a touch, angling his body
toward mine. I remain motionless, dumbfounded. If this ruse keeps me from
having to slay the cocky bastard, so be it. There’s no way I’d be able to get
away with killing two members of Tairheia’s ruling family and Kane is the
main priority.
 Silas laughs, a loud depraved sound, obviously doubting the
veracity of Roman’s words. “I must admit I’m disappointed dear cousin.
After last night I was already envisioning our time together.” I stare at him,
annoyed that I ever considered him charming.
Roman ignores him and begins piling food onto his plate as well as
my own. The smell is mouthwatering, but my hunger has yet to return. I
play with my meal, pushing the food around with my fork. I chance a
glance in Silas’s direction and find Nicias staring at me, a curious
expression arranging his features. Beside him Silas takes a long sip of his
wine, gliding his tongue over his lip provocatively. The man is clearly
disturbed, and I immediately add him to my mental list of adversaries.
Damn, this list is getting long.
Since the rest of the Feast goes on without incident, I take the
opportunity to survey my mark. I’m careful not to let my stare linger too
long in his direction, my gaze roaming over each guest in turn. Surprisingly,
Kane only has a single food taster, the young man sampling each course
presented the Alpha, but that’s not to say he doesn’t have plenty of other
security in place.
There are two guards posted a few feet to the rear of his chair,
another pair evenly pacing at the edge of the dais. I can make out soldiers
posted around the four corners of the room, each a little too preoccupied
with the Alpha’s table to simply be enjoying the festivities.
Jakobian wants the job to be quick and simple, with no evidence
that could incriminate Krua in the slaying. I could fling a knife across the
table, end it here and now, but that would only take care of the quick and
simple part of the assignment. The kill needs to take place somewhere
remote, somewhere the body could rot for a couple of days prior to being
found.
The infamous crypt dungeons would be ideal, the dingy maze a
textbook location to stash a body, but the probability of catching him alone
down there is very slim. I might try creeping into his quarters one evening,
hiding in the bathing chamber until the perfect moment presents itself, but
getting in and out unseen is highly unlikely. An arrow to the heart or head
might be ideal, but it’d have to be from a considerable distance and I’m not
that great of a shot. Poison is another viable option, but I’d have to get my
hands on some and find a way near his food. I’m thinking my best viable
option would be to take advantage of the covering the Wild Masque would
provide and possibly set up another territory to take the fall. I’d have to get
ahold of another territory’s sigil uniform but that might not be too
difficult.
With each passing idea more pitiful than the next, my temperament
hardens, further souring my mood. There’s no way I’ll be able to carry out
the kill unnoticed and Jakobian knows this, perhaps even hopes I’ll die
trying.
Fucking asshole.
Maybe I’ll end up killing two Jakobian men during this Trek.

CHAPTER 17
The Feast lasts far into the early hours of the dawn, the sun’s beams slowly
stealing across the sky. After a few hours, and even more goblets of wine,
the morning’s run catches up with me, my body begging for reprieve.
Thankfully, Roman must be exhausted as well for he retires for the evening
earlier than half the attendees. I don’t argue when he excuses the both of us,
casually guiding me towards the Hall exit. We travel in silence until we
reach the center of the first-floor landing.
“‘She’s mine,’ like I’m some old cow you own.” I turn to face
him once I’m certain we’re alone.
“No, nothing like that.” I swear I detect the makings of a grin.
“I’m sure cows are far more agreeable.”
“Hilarious.” That earns him a shove. “Three attempts at humor in
less than twenty-four hours? I’m not even sure you’re the same Roman I
know.” I head off towards my stairwell, slightly chuckling at my own joke.
“Peia.” Though I can’t pinpoint exactly what it is, there’s
something about his tone that has me turning back. “Maybe you should stay
in my chamber tonight. Might save you a visit from Silas.” The prospect of
being alone with Roman for the rest of the night is more intriguing than I
care to admit, but I don’t need the added complication.
“Let him come. I’ve got a gorgeous window I’ve been dying to
toss something out of.” I tease though he doesn’t seem amused. “Besides, I
doubt he’d make the climb just to bed the Ker of Krua. Seems a bit lazy,
that one.” Contemplating, he nods his agreement.
“No run this morning. The Pack leaders are leaving for the Wolf
Run and our presence is required at the sendoff. We’ll run near dusk
instead.”
“You really spoil me Roman.” My words half muffled by a yawn.
“Get some rest. I’ll see you in a few hours.”
“Night.” I bound up the stairs, the pull of my bed a force not to be
ignored. Upon entry I scrub my face raw, all too keen to be rid of the grisly
feast ritual streaked across my jaw. With the deadbolt securely fastened and
my weapons bedside, I curl up under the duvet, begging for a dreamless
night, but, as per usual, the nightmares won’t dare leave me be.
It’s abnormally warm when I wake, the rays from the open window
boring right onto my face. The morning crept along faster than I’d hoped
and considering the night I had, I’d kill for a few more hours of sleep. Not
giving a lick about my appearance, I crawl right out of bed and into the
uniform I wore to the Feast last night. The air is stifling at this hour, so I
splash some cool water on my face and pile my hair into a messy lump atop
my head. From the bathing chamber, I can hear someone rattling my
chamber door.
“Open up,” Alek calls, jingling the handle.
“Just a sec,” I shout. It takes me a second to get it unlocked.
“Deadbolt?”
“I’ve got a new admirer and let’s just say he isn’t as civil as you.”
“Alpha’s idiot son?”
“How’d you know?” I quickly grab my sheath from the floor and
hook it over my shoulder. Alek leads the way as we head down the
stairwell.
“I saw him sitting across from you last night. Thought he was going
to bend you over the table right then and there, the look on his face.”
“It seems in the Alpha’s territory nothing arouses a man more than
the sight of murder and bloodshed.”
“Just try not to wander around alone, will you?”
 “Aww, are you worried about little ole me?” I probe, mimicking the
voice of a child.
“Don’t be an ass, Peia,” he clips, his tone uncharacteristically
serious. “You’ve mastered the art of pissing people off and there’s more
than a few in this palace who’d love to mount your head on a spike. Just be
cautious.”
“Believe me, I have forgotten just how many are aiming for my
death,” I tell him honestly. “But thanks Alek.”
I’m not entirely sure where we’re supposed to meet so I let Alek
take the lead. He guides us through a narrow hallway I’m unfamiliar with to
a side courtyard that connects with the rear of the palace. It lies on the
opposite end of the boat shed path, far past Roman’s running trail, and
connects with an old road that runs out into the woods.
The sendoff isn’t so much a ritual as it is a courtesy, a pledge of
respect to the Pack leaders. The Wolf Run is meant to serve as a time for
bonding between the Beta’s of Lyca and their Alpha, a time to re-forge the
ties that bind each territory together. In reality, it’s just an excuse for the
Pack leaders to dump their responsibilities on their Grey Commanders
while they remain intoxicated for a few days out in the woods while their
soldiers run amuck with minimal supervision.
Though neither Kai nor myself every showed much interest in the
Trek, my brother Eon couldn’t wait until his first festival. The Wolf Run in
particular seemed most appealing to him. A few days without my father
looking over his shoulder allotted him plenty of time to get caught up in the
local mischief.
The crowd already gathered outside is much smaller than the horde
from the Feast since only higher-ranking soldiers are expected to be present
for the start of the Run. Alek and I nudge our way towards the front of the
crowd near the woodland entrance. Jakobian is already mounted atop his
stallion with Kane on the steed to his left. Roman is standing to the side of
his father’s horse, looking more lively than usual, while handing him his
sheathed labrys. The Beta straps the axe to his hip all the while beaming
down at his son with an obvious look of pride.
The man may be a cold-hearted bastard, but he loves his son.
Silas stands by his father as well, with his brother a few paces
behind. The Alpha also seems pleased to be sent off by his kin, but the
returning look from his eldest reeks of contempt. The remaining Beta’s
seem ready and poised to begin the Run. Without further delay, the Alpha
howls deep into the sky, the rest of the convoy shortly following suit. The
courtyard echoes with the thundering howl of the Pack.
Alek joins in, but I remain silent, declining to partake in honoring
the Pack leaders I’d be more than happy to slaughter while they slumber.
The hunting party takes off in a manner of seconds, the mounts charging
below the iron arch curving across the road, the insignia above reading
“Tread Lightly for Wolves’ Dwell Near.”
I’m gearing to retreat back into the palace to do some hunting of
my own when I spot her. There among the front of the crowd Neoma stands,
staring off after the now departed leaders.
Grand Archivist.
If anyone would now the layout of the Alpha’s palace it would be
her. And she did say to stop by if I ever need a friend. Agreeing to meet up
with Alek later, I dash off after my newest target intent on gathering as
much intel as possible.
“Neoma!” My shout isn’t more than a whisper compared to the
buzz of the crowd, but to my astonishment, she turns after the first call. I
wave to signal it was me, but she seems to have recognized my voice.
“Good morning, little wolf. Enchanting design.” She points,
indicating my uniform. “I take it that wasn’t your doing?”
“No, but it’s starting to grow on me.”
“Exquisite,” she remarks to herself, bending over to better inspect
the black tree on my chest. Not wanting to elaborate on the ink, I decide to
change the subject.
“Are you busy today? I have some free time this afternoon and I
was hoping to visit with you down in your library.”
“I’d be honored,” she beams, clasping my hand to hers. I blanch at
her touch, startled by the chill of her hands, but she hardly seems to notice.
She drags me back up the courtyard steps, along the stoa to an entrance I
hadn’t used before.
She’s dressed similarly to our first encounter, the long sleeves and
high neckline almost ridiculous in this heat. A familiar bulge rests at her
chest, the lacy fabric outlining what appears to be a rather large pendant.
I’m tempted to remark on it but then again, who am I to judge garment
choices.
“How did you enjoy the Feast last night?” Her voice echoes along
the empty palace corridor. She leads the way, pulling me along into a small
study. The shelves lining the walls are for the most part empty, only a dozen
or so books scattered about. A single desk has been pushed off into the
corner, its surface littered with parchments of different size.
“It had its moments. I very much enjoyed the wine.” I’d describe
her snort as decidedly ladylike.
“Course you did. Never met a soul who spoke ill of Palayian
nectar,” she says smiling, sending a not-so-subtle wink my direction. Her
good humor must be contagious for I send her a genuine smile in return.
“Is this your library?” I ask cheerfully, stretching great lengths to
hide my disappointment.
How is one supposed to find architectural secrets in a room with
twelve books?
“My library? This isn’t more than an oversized broom cupboard.”
Looks like I’m not the only one disappointed with this place. “Third floor,
remember? We’re simply taking a minor detour on our way.” She snatches
up a long roll of parchment from one of the shelves, giving it a hasty skim.
Something amiss catches her attention, her eyes narrowing a fraction as she
studies a section of the page. “Can’t trust her with anything,” she mutters
under her breath, the corners of her mouth drooping downward. “I’ll have
to redo the whole damn thing. Very well, best be going then.” She once
again takes my hand, leading us towards her hollow of words and secrets.
I expect us to head back towards the foyer to take the main
stairwell up to the third floor, but she steers us towards an entryway secured
with a rusted iron gate. She pushes through the gate effortlessly, the old
metal swaying without any sign of resistance. It opens into a high tower, a
cascading spiral staircase running up through the center. I notice the tower
is roofless leaving the entirety of the stairs exposed, extending up into the
open sky.
“Aren’t afraid of heights, are you?” I answer by releasing her grip
and leading the way up the treacherous looking flight of steps taking them
two at a time. When I reach the third floor landing, I’m surprised to find
myself revitalized, invigorated by my hasty pace up the stairs. Neoma is
right on my tail, her pace impressive.
“Haven’t felt a rush like that in a while. Didn’t even realize how
much I’ve missed the action while being cooped up with my readings all
day.” I give her a quizzical look prompting her to explain. “I used to be a
soldier like yourself, a mighty warrior composed for battle and destruction
until a rather sour turn of events landed me here.” I can almost taste the
bitterness seeping from her words. “But it’s best we leave the past where it
lay. Now, let’s get to the real fun.”
The landing branching off from the stairwell ends in a single set
of immense mahogany doors, the wood glossy and well kept. Neoma
reaches into the pocket of her dress pulling out a brass, slender key. With a
nimble twitch of the wrist, the doors swing open to reveal a sight even the
gods would have envied.
The wide rectangular area spread out in front of me isn’t so much a
room of books, but a colosseum of knowledge, a place that defies natural
law. A few paces in a bannister rests, a creation of sleek ebony encircling
the large sphere cut out from the floor, guarding the rooms occupants from
stepping right off the ledge. Bracing the bannister, I quickly see why such
was necessary. The sinister pit descends floor after floor, the ground level
seemingly bracing the ceiling of the Underworld. I wouldn’t be surprised to
hear Hades torturing poor souls while reading down there. The shelves
aligning the walls on each level are shoved to the brim with books,
parchments, parcels of any kind, some so browned and tattered they
could’ve been written prior to the time of man. An elegant staircase follows
the curve of the bannister, each level connected by a short section of steps,
the entire stairway a continuous connecting spiral.
I turn to find Neoma staring, her brows set into an odd expression.
She begins taking the stairs down a level, following the curvature of the
banister towards the left. She waves a hand over her shoulder encouraging
me to follow. Her descent comes to a halt on the floor below. In the middle
of the space sits a monstrous rectangular table, the surrounding chairs
enough to host every member of the Dire.
“My office is two levels down, but this is my favorite spot to read.”
She takes the seat at one head.
“I can understand why. This thing’s bigger than the Ruins entire
foyer.” I follow her gaze to the wall behind me, the sole wall without
shelves and tomes filling the space, to the carving engraved along its sum.
It’s a beast of some sort which, considering this is the capitol of
Lyca, I’m guessing to be lycanthropic in nature. The sight is beguiling, the
ferocious beast stretching from ceiling to floor, seemingly snarling at any
person foolish enough to steal a glance.
 “She’s quite the beauty, isn’t she?” Neoma asks over my left
shoulder. I hadn’t heard her approach, but the words don’t startle me.
“Who is she?” I inquire, my eyes fixated on the wolf’s.
“Laelaps.”
“Zeus’s hound? The one destined to catch anything she set out for?”
“Ah, the common misconception. She was no hound,” she answers
almost bitterly. “She was a wolf. But not just any wolf.” She pauses a
moment for emphasis. “She was a true Dire, one of the most majestic of her
kind. And she belonged to no one, least of all Zeus.”
“I guess I’ve heard a different version of the tale.” My eyes remain
trained on the beast, unable to pry my gaze away.
“Allow me to familiarize you with an accurate account.” She takes
my arm, navigating me towards one of the empty chairs at the table.
Circling around, taking the seat opposite me, she dives right into the tale.
“How acquainted are you with the history of Lyca? Of its
founding?”
“I know it was named after Lycaon because of his brazenness
against Zeus.”
“But do you know why he challenged the spiteful god of the sky?”
she presses, the current subject seemingly a passion of hers, her index
finger stabbing at the old wood in front of her. “For you to truly understand
the past, we need to start at the beginning, in a small area of Tairheia once
known as Thebes. The poor town was suffering, its crops destroyed, its
people mauled in the darkness by the nocturnal monstrosity known across
the realm as the Teumessian Fox.”
“The fox Zeus dispatched Laelaps to hunt? The one whose destiny
was to never be caught?”
“That’s the one, only Zeus didn’t send Laelaps to stop him. It was
Zeus that sent the fox down to the town in the first place. He was concerned
the people of Thebes were faltering in their adoration, so he sent them a
friendly reminder of what happens to those who don’t worship the gods
copiously. He sent that retched fox to wreak havoc upon those he deemed
ungrateful. The god wrongfully assumed the citizens of Thebes would
grovel at his feet, begging for his forgiveness, but his arrogance was to be
his very downfall. The people of Thebes weren’t so easily manipulated.
They turned their prayer elsewhere, to a place that held no reach for the
gods. They pleaded for a salvation that would soon be granted.”
 “Laelaps,” I interrupt.
“Precisely. The great wolf hunted the fox to the ends of the Earth
until every citizen of Thebes once again slept soundly in their beds.”
“But the fox was supposed to be uncatchable.”
“Your point?”
“Since Laelaps was supposed to be able to catch anything, but the
fox was destined to never be caught, it created a paradox. One Zeus
remedied by eliminating them both.”
“According to whom?” she coos, drawing out her words playfully.
“Truth was, the Teumessian Fox wasn’t as remarkable as Zeus had
proposed. The wolf defeated her without taking a single wound in return.
After that, people across the realm began demolishing their godly statues,
constructing new ones in their place, ones that honored their new savor.”
“I take it Zeus wasn’t thrilled by the new additions?”
“He was furious. It was said the mountains trembled from his
wrath.”
“What did he do?” I find myself holding my breath, dangling from
her every word.
“He killed the sacred beast and released her amongst the stars
where she was to remain for all eternity. People from all corners of the land
mourned the loss, none more so than her mother.” The bite in her words is
chilling. “But a certain king in particular sought vengeance. He invited the
mighty god to a feast in his honor, but the meal didn’t exactly go as
planned.”
“Let me guess, the infamous king instead served the god the flesh
of his own son.”
She nods hearteningly, outwardly satisfied with my knowledge. Her
eyes glistening wickedly with each passing word. “Zeus was livid, so
outraged by their insult he turned them all into the very beast they adored.
The god expected his punishment to strike fear in the hearts of those who
thought to discard him, but he was mistaken yet again. Word of the kings’
actions spread like wildfire until every city began worshipping the man’s
name, tearing down the temples of the gods to replace them with new
structures, sanctuaries raised for violence. The land was renamed and
divided up into new territories with a novel ruling system in place.”
“And the wolves’ of Lyca were born.”
OceanofPDF.com
 CHAPTER 18
I’d never been one for stories as a child. I’d never ask for a tale at bedtime
or when I was sick. I’d always preferred reality to the legends of old, but to
listen to Neoma speak her tale was like listening to the events of the recent
past. Her stories weren’t fables or fantasies created for selfish intents. They
were historical events that had shaped the realm.
“And what of Laelaps?” I can’t seem to get my mind of the old
wolf. “Was she forgotten?”
“By some,” she answers softly, “but a mother never forgets her
kin. It was said she spent eternity searching for her.” I’ve never heard
Neoma sound so solemn.
“Did she ever find her?” Neoma’s no longer looking at me, her
gaze fixated on the lone figure carved along the wall.
“A story for a different time,” she says, her smile small, defeated.
I spent the next couple of hours discussing more about the history
of Lyca until Neoma caught sight of the time and insisted she needed to get
back to work. She told me to stay, have a look around for as long as I
pleased. Intent on finding something of use among the volumes, I set off to
work searching title after title. I was careful not to appear too interested in
any specific subject area to deter any suspicion. I hadn’t realized how late
it’d gotten, or how famished I was, until a young servant boy from the
kitchen brought in a platter of food. I was a few stories below skimming
through a section dedicated to ancient tongues, when I smelled the
unmistakable aroma of sweet cakes. Guided by scent alone, I found Neoma
seated at her favorite haunt awaiting me patiently.
“I thought you’d smell the food,” she greets. “Come, have some. I
ordered plenty.”
“Do you know the hour?” I ask, reaching for one of the treats.
“Almost dusk,” she answers around her own mouthful.
“Damn, I have to go.” Grabbing a treat for the road, I make a dash
for the door.
“Will you be back soon, little wolf?” The hopeful sound of her
voice has me turning back.
“Of course, Neoma. Any free time I’m allotted I’ll spend here.
Thank you for everything today,” I tell her, sprinting away from the library.
After making a hasty stop to change into a tunic, I rush to meet my CO.
As I near the trail I see Roman pacing methodically, occasionally
checking around for my arrival. He looks anxious, but when his gaze falls
on me, I swear his expression softens in relief.
“Where have you been?” he presses urgently.
“In the library with Neoma. Why, miss me?”
Teasing? Bad move, Peia.
“I thought something might’ve happened.” He doesn’t look me in
the eyes as he says this, his words dipping in volume.
“Aside from the minor ass cramp from sitting so long, I’m perfect.”
I accompany my declaration with an overly cheerful beam.
“Perfect?” he muses, “Now, that’s something I intend to change.”
Challenge accepted.
There’s an ominous feel to the evening, the few clouds an
unfamiliar sight in the usually vacant sky. We start out later than projected,
the heavens already painted a brilliant indigo from the sun’s ongoing
departure. The air is still warm, but nothing compared to the blaring sun of
midday. I keep my pace even, too tired for full speed but my inner
competitiveness is still determined to beat Roman. I’m a few feet from the
fork in the trail when I feel it, the large droplets slapping me in the face.
The sensation is odd, an old acquaintance I hadn’t seen in years.
Rejuvenated, I raise my face to the sky and smile.
Assuming it’s just a small shower that will soon pass, I continue up
the trail. I don’t make it three steps before the water really begins to fall,
pouring buckets atop my head. My tunics drenched in seconds, the fabric a
clinging weight dragging me towards the forest floor.
The dusty dirt trail turns to slippery muck making the run almost
impossible. Deciding not to risk an injury continuing up the trail, I branch
off left towards the ruined temple hoping for some shelter from the driving
rain. I slip twice, landing knees first in the slick mud, before I make it
underneath the sanctuary of the stoa. Stomping the sludge from my boots, I
don’t hear Roman’s approach until he comes trudging up the steps. I take it
from his irritated scowl and the mud caking his uniform that he’s fallen
quite a few times.
“You’ve got a little something over here,” I comment pointing to
an area caked in muck near his ear.
“Help me out will you, I can’t reach it,” he responds, angling his
shoulder toward me. Naively, I reach out to swab the area clean. I’m taken
off guard when his arm reaches below my knees, carrying me off into the
rain. I kick at him feebly, my fists pounding into his back, but the rain
mixed with my amusement doesn’t result in much of an effort to get loose.
After a few paces, he gently plops me down into the mud. He steps
away, admiring his handy work, foolishly thinking I won’t retaliate in kind.
Digging my fingers into the slimy earth, I push off with all my strength
lunging at Roman. My attack startles him, causing him to stagger
backwards knocking him on his ass. I get caught in the momentum and end
up sprawled out on top of him. We wrestle around in the muck for a while
until we’re both covered in the brown filth.
Laughing, I roll off him settling on my back, allowing the rain to
wash over me. I turn to find Roman staring.
“Something wrong?” I query, amused.
“I wish I could laugh without restraint as you do.”
“No, you don’t,” I tell him earnestly. “It feels wrong sometimes,
unnatural, to laugh after everything I’ve done.” I turn back towards the sky,
wishing the rain could wash away more than just the filth from my body.
“The warmth of your laugh rivals that of the sun. I’ve never heard a
more reassuring sound.” His response has my face heating, my body in free
fall, the same feeling I get when plunging from a steep cliff. This man
before me so different from my usual Roman.
Turning back to face him, resting my head on my elbow, I start,
“Damn Roman, I had no idea you were such a poet. Is that how you woo all
the females of Lyca? Flinging filth at them while bestowing lyrical
compliments?”
“Not all,” he almost purrs, “I save that just for one.”
And there it is, a smile so dazzling, so genuinely gorgeous, it pulls
at my heartstrings in a way nothing else has. With his scar almost
completely obscured, the right side covered in muck, there’s nothing to
dampen his beam. It’s a sight exactly as magnificent as I’d imagined it’d be.
One I’d give anything to see until the end of days.
Once the rain has ceased, we decide to abandon our run in favor of
clean clothes and a hot meal. In the palace foyer, I start in the direction of
my tower until Roman insists I wash up in his chamber.
“It’s closer,” he says.
Sure, whatever you say.
After careful consideration, the idea of trekking up ten stories with
mud wedged between certain areas makes the suggestion hard to pass up.
Roman’s chamber is located on the second floor in a wing all its
own. A single oak door located right off the landing opens into a quaint
antechamber, a circular marble table taking up most of its center. I set my
blades there and follow Roman through the adjoining set of doors into his
main living area.
The space is generous, at least three times the size of my tower
room. The surrounding walls are grainy, the marble a perfect match to the
sand of the shore, with understated gold trimmings. The wall opposite the
doorway is practically non-existent, allowing ceiling to floor access to the
outside terrace and its intimate dining area. In the center of the room sits a
massive canopy bed covered in a duvet of rich burgundy. At the foot of the
bed is a small sitting area for two. To the left of the canopy sits a large
wardrobe overflowing with weapons of various kinds. The single other door
on the right side I’m assuming to be the entrance to the bathing chamber.
Standing awkwardly near the entryway, Roman begins rummaging
through his wardrobe. Handing over a large white robe he presses me to
bathe first while he orders us something to eat. Craving the boiling water of
a hot bath, I don’t argue.
Trying to pry off my newly soaked uniform is like trying to peel off
my own skin. After ten minutes of tugging and yanking, I finally get the
damn thing off. Submerging myself into the steaming liquid, I relax for a
few minutes. When the water begins to cool, I decide it’s time to scrub
myself clean, allowing the now murky liquid to extract the brown dirt from
my flesh, unveiling the familiar black stains
beneath.
After toweling off and wringing out my hair as best I could, I slip
into the robe Roman gave me. Though it’s a couple sizes too large, it’s soft
and comfy and I’m tempted to make it my permanent uniform.
“Is there any water left in Lyca?” Roman asks when I enter the
room. He doesn’t turn, his eyes trained out onto the terrace.
“Not sure,” I reply curling up on the bed, my legs crossed beneath
me.
“By all means, make yourself at home.” He makes his way across
the chamber to bathe. I snicker at his comment, falling back on the lovely
fabric.
“I just might.” I close my eyes, the fatigue from the day creeping
up on me. “You’re more than welcome to my chamber for the evening.”
Roman’s breath tickles my neck as he croons, “I’d rather spend
my evening here.” I swear I almost feel his smile as the last word leaves his
lips. “Food is on the terrace. I ordered your favorites.”
With hunger overpowering my exhaustion, I slink out of bed and
stalk out onto the terrace. Filling a plate with spicy links and enough bread
to fill Roman’s wardrobe, I take a seat on the terrace ledge, my feet
dangling over the garden below. The night is still early, the sun only having
set fully a few hours prior. There are a few stragglers mingling in the
garden, but most have already taken off to enjoy the capitol’s night life.
Picturing a night out at Salome’s following a long day of training,
with rich ale by the pitcher full, conjures a spike of longing. In all my years
spent loathing Krua, at no point did I conceive I might miss the hellhole.
“Desiring a night out?” Roman joins me, plopping down a pint in
the space between us.
“Obviously. I was secretly hoping to meet up with Silas in an
hour or so.” I accept his offering, taking a long pull of the dark, nutty
beverage.
He clutches the railing near where I’m seated, his knuckles lightly
brushing against my thigh, his head bowed low as if deliberating intently.
Taking advantage of Roman’s distracted state, I allow myself a long glance
in his direction.
His hair is still damp, the disheveled spikes trickling droplets
down his neck. The droplets continue downward, following the muscular
course along his spine, turning his old stains into newly flowing ink. He’s
nearly fully exposed, save for the low hung trousers hanging from his waist.
His feet are bare, vulnerable in a way that feels almost too intimate.
 I’m internally debating whether running my hands all over his wet
ink would be inappropriate or not when suddenly his head jerks up,
catching me mid-stare.
“See something you like?” Flushed, I turn away. A nervous chuckle
escapes me.
“What happened to my Roman?” My attempt at lightening the
mood.
“Your Roman?” I’ve never seen him look so smug. “I had no idea
you were so territorial, Peia.” This new Roman’s an arrogant bastard who
I’m tempted to shove off this terrace. “What do you mean, Peia. What’s
your Roman like?”
“I mean this,” I respond, my arm sweeping indicating his entire
body. “My Roman’s grouchy and crabby. He never smiles, definitely
doesn’t smirk. He hates happiness and laughter and all things pleasant. Oh,
and he pretty much can’t stand the sight of me,” I tack on at the end.
“He sounds awful.”
“He’s the fucking worst. But I guess he has his moments.”
Climbing down of the ledge I stand in front of him, urging him to meet my
eyes. “In all seriousness Roman, why the change?”
He lets out a deep breath, his head falling forward. I take a moment
to gaze at his profile, the straight nose, those rosy lips, the bottom one just a
little bit fuller than the top. That permanent scruff hiding most of just
features that I sometimes fantasize about running my fingers through.
Though I’d never admit it out loud, Roman is handsome. Devastatingly
handsome, scar and all.
“Peia, you’re not the only one who despises Krua. I stand by my
father, by my blood, but this wasn’t the life I envisioned. I never desired to
be a Dire. When I was a child, I always imagined myself an architect or a
builder.”
“Roman Jakobian, master of brick and mortar. Shirtless, dripping
with sweat under the raging sun, muscles bulging under the strenuous
conditions.” His mask of annoyance returns. “Girl can fantasize,” I add with
a wink. He lets out a defeated sigh that has me chuckling.
“You can be a little shit sometimes, Peia. You know that?” He’s
right.
“You’re right, Roman. I’m sorry. Really. Please continue.” I offer
him a genuine smiling, urging him on.
 “I wanted to build, to create, not destroy. Being here, away from
Krua and The Ruin, I feel like maybe that’s still possible.” The hopelessness
in his eyes is heartbreaking, too much for me to stomach. Reaching up on
tip toes, I grasp him tenderly by the neck, urging his eye to find mine.
“It is, Roman. For you it is.” I lean back, my fingers tenderly
tracing the scar of his face. “Does it hurt?”
“Not anymore.”
After we break our embrace, I turn my attention to my half-drunk
ale. The night has remained warm and I’m getting uncomfortable in the
thick robe. Roman must notice for he disappears inside, quickly returning
with a light oversized tunic.
“Take this,” he commands, hastily handing me the me the fabric.
I’m about to joke about him hoping to see me naked when he
timidly turns away, offering me some privacy to change. It amazes me that
an act so trivial, so minute, can ignite such warmth within me. It’s a
common curtesy so infrequent among the beasts of Krua, I almost forgot
what chivalry looks like.
The shirt is long, the fabric reaching mid-thigh. I have to roll the
sleeves quite a few times in order to use my arms properly. Bringing the
fabric to my nose, I inhale deeply, the scent a mixture of rain and pine. The
scent of Roman. Clearing my throat, I give a small twirl.
“I think I’m going to keep this.”
“Have at it. Anything you want, it’s yours. Always.”
I pray the darkness provides enough cover for my surely flushed
cheeks.
Whatever the cause I don’t care, I adore this playful, almost flirty
side of Roman.
Returning to my old seat on the ledge, Roman decides on the place
beside me.
“You were wrong before Peia, when you said I couldn’t stand the
sight of you.” Somewhere below, a fiddler’s tune catches my ear igniting a
long-shrouded desire to dance. “There isn’t a sight in all of Lyca I enjoy
more than you.”
On that note, I vow to never leave this chamber again.

OceanofPDF.com
 CHAPTER 19
After hours of food, drink and carefree banter, our evening culminates with
the sunrise. I wake well past noon, groggy and famished, with a snoozing
Roman by my side. He lies on his stomach, his face turned toward me, the
muscles of his body relaxed and untroubled for once. He appears so
peaceful, lost in slumber, I don’t dare wake him. I pile my bird’s nest of hair
into an untidy chignon at the top of my head, tightly securing it with a quill
from Roman’s desk. Borrowing a pair of his trousers, I scurry from the
chamber to return to my own, my still damp boots in hand. My bare feet are
silent on the cool marble as I snake through the halls, intent on remaining
unnoticed.
I’m in a hurry to change and return to the library, determined to
find some key piece of information to help me with my assassination.
Roman mentioned last night that Jakobian had a few of my new uniforms
created, all the same material and design, in case the first one “accidently”
got destroyed. He said he’d instructed they be ready for me in my tower
first thing this morning. Trusting his word, I climb the last remaining flight
of stairs in a haste, smacking headfirst into the body pacing down the
corridor.
“Shit Alek,” I cry. “Get your ogre of a boot off my toe.”
“Your pleasantries in the morning really are the stuff of legend.”
Crouching low, the steel of his scabbard clangs against the smooth floor as
he bends over to examine my foot. His touch is feather light as his fingers
delicately caress the tender spot. “Skin’s still intact but it’ll definitely
bruise.” Directing his words towards my toe he murmurs, “Sorry darling,”
adding a light peck for good measure.
Giggling pathetically, I attempt to free myself from his grasp, but
his fingers remain securely ensnared around my foot. He motions with his
other hand as if to tickle me but stiffens the moment he catches sight of my
pant leg. His gaze hardens, the pupils of his eyes dilating a fraction while
his lips set in a thin line.
“Interesting attire. A bit large, but I like the look.” There’s no
humor to his words, the mirth from just a few seconds ago has vanished.
Rising from his crouch, he doesn’t look at me as he takes a step back.
Posturing so he’s at his tallest, his arms fold over his chest so tightly the
muscles beneath strain against the leather of his uniform. He doesn’t say
another word, but his glower speaks volumes.
“Are you busy right now?” I inquire inching towards my chamber
door, praying Alek will follow. “I was going to visit the library if you want
to come.”
“Sounds riveting.” His words are low, bored even. Knowing he
isn’t going to follow without some coaxing, I spin back around closing the
gap between us.
“Alek-” I start mischievously but he interrupts.
“So that’s where you were last night? After you failed to show up
after your run, I went searching for you like an idiot. I thought something
might’ve happened.”
“I was fine Alek. It started raining during our run and I-”
“Tumbled into Roman’s bed.” Determined to reign in my temper,
I bite down on my lip to keep from blurting out something I know I’ll
regret. Taking my silence as invitation to continue, he adds, “Tell me, Peia,
was the Grey Commander as charming in bed as he is on the battlefield.”
“Enough Alek,” I almost shout, “I don’t grill you about how you
spend your nights.”
“Because you don’t care to know. I could refrain from ever
stepping foot in your chamber again and it wouldn’t make a lick of
difference to you.” His words cut me to the core, filling me with an uneasy
dread. I’m not sure where this conversation is heading, but I’d rather drown
it in the depths of the Aegean than continue.
“Alek, it isn’t like that.”
“Is that where you’ll be staying for the duration of the Trek? In
the Grey Commander’s quarters?”
“Get off it, Alek,” I snap exasperated.
“How quickly you seem to forget whose son he is. Where his
allegiance lies.” Turning his back on me, he marches back down the hall
without another word. Annoyed with the days turn of events thus far, I
storm back to my chamber.
I hate fighting with Alek, hate wasting precious time being angry
with someone I care so deeply for. I know my days are numbered, our lives
are so intertwined with death I can smell it in the daily breeze. Even though
I may not completely understand why he’s so annoyed with me, I’m going
to make damn sure we fix things.
By excessive force if necessary.
Opening the door to my chamber, I’m relieved to see the leathery
stack of clothes folded neatly on my bed. Like his father, Roman always has
been a man of his word. Slipping on one of the uniforms and my sheath, I
tread to the bathing chamber with my boots in hand. Mud has dried and
clotted all along the front, sides, and bottom of the boots, rendering them
inefficient in a fight. With the utmost urgency, I scrub the hell out of them
until their light and nimble once more and tug them on. Bunching my
unruly hair into twin peaks atop my head, I rush from my bedroom down to
the library.
Although I’m starved to the point of violence, I need to find
something of use. When I reach my destination, I find Neoma lying on her
stomach in the middle of the entryway, idly rubbing at the lace lining her
high collar, her head far too close to the text in front of her.
“Compromised vision?” I plop down beside her.
“You don’t know the half of it, little wolf,” she sighs, giving my
knee a reassuring pat. “Looking for something in particular today? Perhaps
a volume on ancient weapons?”
“Not today, thanks. I was hoping to continue my wondering. Maybe
kill an hour or two before lunch.”
“Sure, you know your company’s always welcome. Take all the
time you need.” A triumphant smile possesses my lips as she turns back to
her text. I can tell by the far-off look in her eyes she won’t be paying me
much mind.
After only an hour of searching I find what I’ve been looking for, a
volume titled Tairheian Architecture. It’s a long text, with most of it
pertaining to the stone workings and masonry of the capitol buildings, but
there is a small section in the back dedicated exclusively to the Alpha’s
palace. Though the accompanying map is just a basic layout of the building,
it’s a step in the right direction. If I can plot out the route meticulously and
accurately note the guards’ rotation schedule, I may be able to come up with
a plan to carry out my kill order. Feeling exultant, I bid Neoma farewell and
set out to fill my nagging belly.
It takes me longer than I care to admit to finally find the dining
hall.
Tucked off into the corner of the fourth floor, across from an
extravagantly decorated gallery, sits my salvation. Three times larger than
the one at the Ruin and twice as elaborate, the Alpha dining hall was meant
to feed thousands. Row after row of bulky rectangular tables fill the entirety
of the room. Huge candelabras hang overhead, alighting the room in a
sinister dimness. I spot Absinthe at one of the far tables and push my way
over. I’m a foot away when an irritatingly familiar face steps into my path.
“Dine with me,” Silas pleads over the hum of the room. I see
Absinthe rise from her seat, cocking an eyebrow our way, but I shake her
off. Minding my signal, she sits back down but keeps her eyes trained our
direction.
“Tempting, but I’d rather be fed to the wolves.” I keep my voice
airy, my tone innocent.
Leaning forward until we’re sharing breath, he purrs, “If you
wished to be fed on, all you had to do was ask.” His words remind me of
Alek, and I can’t help but turn, searching for my Alala. I notice him seated a
few places down from Absinthe, his scowl fixated my companion’s form.
“As gratifying as this exchange has been, I should be going.”
Inching past his outstretched arm, I promptly take the empty seat beside
Milos.
“What was that about?” Milos asks, handing me an empty plate.
“Oh, you know, the usual. Just one of my many admirers.” I try to
catch Alek’s eyes, but he seems to be avoiding my gaze like it’s a death
omen.
“Figures.” He hands me a platter of fish and poultry, along with a
bowl of wild rice. Reaching for a thick sauce sure to set my mouth ablaze, I
drench my plate in the savory liquid. Grabbing three slices of the warm
bread, I dig in. The food is delicious and paired with my appetite, I devour
every bite.
As I’m reaching for seconds, Zale approaches, once again plopping
down on the bench at my right, scooting Milos over in the process.
“A little close there, aren’t you?” asks Alek from across the table.
 So now he’s got something to say?
“Oh, my bad.” Zale looks around as if just noticing how close he is.
“Sorry about that, Milos.” Zale gives him a pat on the back as he scootches
my direction.
“Now I understand why you and Roman are such good friends.”
Zale’s pushed so far against me he may end up in my lap. “You’re both
hilarious.” He just chuckles.
I’m on my third serving when Roman takes the seat to my left at
the head of the table. I notice Zale gives him a quick wink which Roman
responds to with an eyeroll. Leaning over he whispers, “You snuck out
early this morning.”
“It was past noon.” My laugh sounds too loud, even to me.
“Pressing matters to attend to?” Dreading I may be headed towards
another uncomfortable conversation, I peer at him from beneath my lashes.
I relax immediately when I catch sight of the smirk playing at the corner of
his lips.
“You could say that. So have you come to summon me for another
tormenting task?”
“Tormenting?” His eyebrows raise a fraction as he begins filling his
own plate. “I thought our runs were your favorite time of the day?”
“So, new Roman’s got even more jokes it seems.”
Roman gives a breathy chuckle, a sound that brings with it a
flourish of warmth. A small commotion at the other end of the table has me
glancing up in time to see Alek storming out of the room.
I almost roll my eyes.
Roman’s expression remains impassive as he too stares after Alek.
“No run tonight,” he says taking a bite of bread, his attention
returning to his meal. “Mandatory sparring in the training room.”
Sloping over on my elbows, I ask, “And are you to be my
partner?”
“Gods no. I’m not sure my ego could bare it.” I snort at the
sincerity of his words.
“Oh, it definitely couldn’t,” Zale chimes in, eavesdropping.
“But be prepared, Peia. This isn’t going to be like training in the
Loft.” His tone is stern, a sharp contrast to our easy banter of a few
moments ago. “Whatever you do, Hypatia, don’t enter a fight with Bastien
or Scabs. I mean it.”
 He doesn’t have to tell me twice.

CHAPTER 20
Since Roman had a meeting with a few of the other Grey Commanders, I
walk to the training room with Absinthe. She’s uncharacteristically verbose
this evening and I admit, I enjoy seeing this side of her. She rambles on
about the sheer brutality of the capitol and the exquisite arsenal stocked on
the palace grounds. I merely nod and offer my agreement, though I can’t
say I’m really enjoying my time as much as she.
I guess the whole public execution thing has put a real damper on
my Trek experience.
Since we’re one of the last to leave the dining hall, we follow the
last few stragglers down a winding stairwell no more than a few bodies
width across. Descending what I surmise to be at least three levels, the shaft
fans out into a sizeable area I’m guessing must be the training hall.
Although the hall itself is noteworthy, it’s the stench that hits me
first, the putrid smell of sweat, blood, and death cramming my senses,
diluting any semblance of wellbeing. It’s not a complete shock considering
we’re so far below ground without any openings or windows for
ventilation, but my stomach churns, nevertheless. The honing acts of
violence and savagery executed down in this chamber remain here forever,
locked away in their stale tomb. Subduing the bile clawing up my throat,
threatening to spill over, I take my first tentative steps into the room.
Room being the operative word.
When equated to the moderately sized layout of the Loft, this space
is an abyss, a gorge encompassing what looks to be the entirety of the
palace catacombs.
So much for my secret passageway plan.
The chamber is brilliantly illumed, the walls and ceilings shrouded
in torches and chandeliers as far as the eye can see. Several sparring rings
are set up along the left-hand wall, a long archery range set up to the right.
Directly in front of the rings, set up on prominently displayed boards, are
enough weapons to arm a large militia. A small balcony runs along the
perimeter of the rectangular room overlooking the training taking place
below. I notice Roman on the balcony to my left, his forearms braced
against the railing. He seems to be engaged in a heated argument with a
soldier I don’t recognize. After what must be a particularly jarring
comment, I swear I hear him growl at his companion.
Never have I been so relieved to be on solid ground, far removed
from my CO’s ire.
While my attention is absorbed in the scene above me, I feel
something in the air around me, a warning of sorts. I can’t explain how or
why but I sense every moment of it. The nock of an arrow, the tug of the
bowstring. I detect the moment it’s released, the air splitting behind me, the
arrows’ tip zoning in on the point of my back directly behind my heart. I
have no time for thought, no room for panic, I simply move, dropping to the
ground without a seconds’ hesitation. The arrow whizzes over my head, its
breeze ruffling the flyaway hairs at my neck. It lodges into wall ahead of
me, narrowly missing a stretching soldier.
I should be dead.
Completely, irrefutably, overwhelmingly dead.
Enraged, I turn to find the bastard smirking, thoroughly pleased by
his near successful slaying attempt.
Bastien.
That little shit.
A roar rips from my throat, the feral sound more animal than
human, as I charge him, my right khopesh unleashed by my fury. He’s
weaponless, save for the recurve bow clutched in his hand, but I don’t give
a damn.
Swinging the blade in the thundering arc, I bring it down hard,
aiming for the stained skin below his neck. Left with no other choice, he
uses the wood of his bow to block my attack. The move is pointless, my
blade almost snapping the bow in two. He wavers, falling back a step, his
smirk replaced with a growing wide-eyed expression. I raise my arm for the
final blow, relishing the prospect of adding his death to my infinitely
growing list, when a voice echoes across the chamber.
“Peia!” Alek bellows. I freeze without volition, my muscles devoid
of any remaining freewill. My breaths are haggard, the air rushing out my
mouth with each thundering heartbeat. The slick of my palms is grading,
my knuckles white around the hilt of my blade. It takes every ounce of
restraint to abstain from slicing him in two, bleeding him dry until the light
marble is sullied with his blood. Taking a painfully slow breath, I sheath the
blade, my eyes remaining trained on the half terrified Dire in front of me.
“Enough Bastien,” Alek orders from behind me. I hear his running
tread heading our direction. My glare holds firm until a strong hand tugs
me backward, forcing me to face him.
“This doesn’t concern you, Alektus,” Bastien hisses.
“Get out of my fucking sight!” Alek barks over my shoulder,
“Before I consider killing you myself.”
Never have I heard his tone so cold, his voice so filled with malice.
Without waiting for Bastien’s retreating footfalls, I fix my wrath on my
traitorous Alala.
“What the hell was that? You should have let me kill him!”
Hooking a hand around my arm, he tugs me over to a side wall. In
all the commotion, I hadn’t noticed the stillness that had befallen the
chamber, the attention our little scuffle had garnered.
“Pei,” he mutters urgently, “you can’t just kill another member of
the Dire, especially with half the soldiers of Lyca in attendance.”
“What about him?” I hiss incredulously. “I doubt he was concerned
with Lycan politics when he aimed that arrow at my chest.”
“It’s not that simple and you know it,” he says defeated. “Bastien
will get what’s coming to him. Believe me, Jakobian won’t let this one
slide.”
“It was my chance to finally kill him Alek!”
“You would’ve been punished Pei and I couldn’t stomach to watch
you suffer because of that prick.”
“You’re not my keeper, Alek.” His eyes widen, the muscles of his
jaw slacking until his chin almost grazes his collarbone.
“I’ll remember that the next time I find myself so vehemently set
on keeping you alive.” His words are acid, searing where they land. But
I’ve grown accustomed to the pain.
“Oh, piss off.” I utter blandly, stalking off in the opposite direction.
He’s supposed to be my Alala, my right hand, the arm that wields my
unbreakable blade.
Not my incessant voice of reason.
Meandering blindly, I have no idea where I’m heading. I just know
I need some air, space to blow off some steam. I’m not sure how long I’ve
been aimlessly wandering when a gentle hand grasps my arm tugging me
backwards. A hand flies over my shoulder, stilling the moment I spot the
beautiful face.
“Up for a fight?” Absinthe asks coolly.
“Absolutely.”
We partner up in one of the empty sparring rings. She proposes
we utilize new melee weaponry, suggesting a pair of Sai apiece from the
rack. I concede, up for the challenge hand to hand will bring. At this point,
I’d agree to fight blindfolded if it meant getting to release some of my pent-
up anger.
“Are you familiar with these?” I ask feeling out the hilt of each.
Their relatively fresh, the shagreen still completely intact with minimal
waring around the edges.
“Not really. This is my first go.”
“Same, but I’ve always been intrigued by their unique
design.”
We square off, readying for our dance of steel. The clashing of
blades is smoother, sharper, as we fly across the ground, arms meeting blow
for blow, blocking without thought, moving without decision. There is no
uncertainty as we barrage one another in an onslaught of strikes and slices. I
anticipate her next move just as swiftly as she does mine as we engage in a
deadlock of strength and agility.
As a near swipe gains her the advantage, one blade held taunt
against my throat, I kick up over my shoulder, sending her frame staggering
back. If looks could kill, the glare Absinthe shoots my way would leave me
stiff in my grave. My accompanying smirk probably isn’t helping matters.
Incensed, she springs for me and, in a move executed to perfection, flips me
onto my back.
“First go with the Sai my ass,” I mutter. She answers with a coy
smile and halfhearted shrug. Offering me a hand up, I clasp it tightly,
tugging with all my weight, drawing her to the floor beside me. I snicker as
she lands with a hard thud.
“Do you always take to losing so graciously?” She’s rubbing a sore
spot at her shoulder.
“Not one of my strong suits, I must admit.” We both laugh, the
mixture of sound untroubled and carefree. Apparently, whatever’s infected
Roman has taken root in the two of us as well. We don’t get up right away,
too enthralled in a debate regarding the potential lethality of a lyre.
“Might be suitable for bashing,” I offer casually.
“Strings may work as an efficient garrote.”
I’m suggesting we give it a try on a certain Dire, when a ruckus
from the neighboring ring catches my attention. Soldiers from all territories
are circled around watching the adversaries with the same painstaking
scrutiny as my public execution a few days prior.
“What’s all that about?” My body rebels as I shift into a sitting
position, the movement draining my battered limbs.
“Alpha’s boys. They fight every evening. Futile really, considering
the eldest seems to dominant every match.”
Silas versus Nicias.
Brother versus brother, battling it out in the open ring in front of the
toughest Lyca has to offer.
Finding a spot near the front, we take in the scene. Both males
wield a single weapon each, Nicias a moderate xiphos blade and a single
bitted battle axe for his brother. First sight of the pitifully one-sided fight
has me wincing into my palm. For every move Nicias makes, Silas is poised
and ready, never flinching in the slightest. His movements are smooth and
fluid, a ripple traveling across the morning pond. The moment Silas
switches to the offensive, the display really takes a turn for the worst.
Uncompromising and strategically planned, each strike chips away
at Nicias’s already crumbing composure. Every move of his is second
guessed, every blow hesitant without conviction. I swipe my palms against
the leather of my bottoms, leaving a sweaty streak behind, praying to any
meddling deities to end this thrashing before the Alpha comes home to a
palace with one less son marauding its grounds. Mercifully, a single strike
later results in the xiphos clattering to the ground, not a single crimson
droplet shed in accompany.
 “Better luck in the gardens, Nissy.” Spiritedly slapping his brother’s
cheek, a bit harder than warranted, Silas swaggers toward a water table near
the rings edge. Mid gulp, sharp eyes find mine, a predatory gaze latching on
to its prey. Seeping arrogance, he prowls closer, eyes glistening with a
promise of carnality. “Just couldn’t keep your distance,” he tsks. “Tell me,
would you like me to wait and take you up against my chamber walls, or do
you not mind an audience.” Leering, he steps closer.
“Your charm is uncanny, a true weaver of words. Tell me, does it
come naturally or are you merely overcompensating for something?”
Amusement coating every word, I spare a glance downward gifting him a
leer of my own. I keep my arms loose, primed for a probable assault, but he
doesn’t move. Apart from the rise fall of his chest, he remains fixed as
stone.
“I’m going to enjoy taming that mouth of yours divine Ker, of that I
am certain.” He retreats with long determined strides, vanishing through the
chamber doors with most of his comrades trailing behind.
“That was unwise,” Absinthe warns.
“I know, but then again, I wasn’t christened Ker of Krua for my
wisdom.”
Possessed by a sudden whim, I stride over to the Alpha’s youngest.
His chief sentry, a brawny young man, skin the deepest russet, charcoal
locks held together at the base on his neck, with an uncomfortable looking
scowl, inches closer situating himself between Nicias and my looming
approach.
“May I have the next round?” I ask. The identical look racking their
features, a concoction of shock and revulsion, entices me. “Don’t worry, I
won’t kill him,” I add with a glint, directing my words towards the sentry.
A subtle twitch tugs at the corners of the sentry’s mouth, but his
dark chocolate eyes remain pointed, silently sizing up the miniature girl of
death and ink opposite him spouting poorly thought-out jokes.
“No,” Nicias replies after a beat. “I’m finished for the
evening.”
Dogged, I press on. “That pitiful display earlier was appalling,
especially for the Alpha’s son. You walked away unscathed this time, but
you may not always find yourself so fortunate.”
“Your concern is touching,” he offers, sidestepping his sentry so
we’re standing toe to toe. “But it was a sparring match between brothers, a
training exercise, not a formal declaration of war. I think we’ll be able to
keep the blood shed to a minimum, a concept you must be unaccustomed
with.”
The jab stings, striking as intended, but I hold my deadpan
expression. In all honesty, it’s the most brazenness I’ve witnessed from the
young soldier and a promising indicator of the fighter buried beneath.
“True, but my barbarism isn’t the current topic of discussion.”
Facing him now, this young Jakobian boy a few years older than Iren, with
his spirit of innocence, his sense of decency in a world without rules, only
fortifies my resolve, reinforces my determination to see this boy survive.
“Your brother was plucked directly from the forges, while you were
kneaded at the hearth.”
His forehead furrows, his jaw clenching as he carefully
contemplates his next words. “Even if that’s true, why would it concern
you? What motives could you possibly have for helping me?”
“I don’t care much for bullies, and I can’t stand your asshole of a
brother. Witnessing the look on his face as you tear him to shreds would be
reason enough.” His brows knit together, the corners of his mouth quirking
upward, offering the faintest trace of a smile. I can see the scrutiny of his
gaze, the careful deliberation of my words.
“Then let’s fight.” I beam, pleasantly surprised by his response. His
returning stab at a grin is restrained, muted, but it’s a start.
“Excellent, but be fair warned son of Tairheia, I won’t coddle you.
The Ker of Krua grants clemency to no one, least of all a Jakobian.” I
caution him callously with a corresponding wink. He offers me a boyish
grin in return, a deeper look, the expression softening the harsh frown lines
of his face, shifting them into something more akin to a boy his age. The
look is endearing, a sight parallel to how I’ve envisioned my brother’s own
smile might have looked had he been given more than a measly fourteen
years.
“I really must oppose,” the sullen sentry interrupts, the intensity of
his glower reaching new heights. “I don’t think it wise to enter into the ring
with a visiting soldier of her... aptitude.”
“Relax, Galen. It’s just sparring.” Nicias drifts to the other side of
the ring to retrieve his weapon.
“Yeah, Galen, relax,” I croon towards the now pissed off looking
soldier. The handsome one known as Galen doesn’t respond, instead
walking over to where Nicias is now preparing. The two appear to be
engaged in some sort of heated argument, the poor sentry about to lose his
cool. His eyes turn pleading, desperate even, and I find myself turning
away, the intimate scene seemingly out of place in this violent place.
Moseying in the direction of the weapons rack, I return the Sai pair
opting for a reasonably sized xiphos to match my opponent’s. I rest my
khopesh blades near the ring, forever within my sightline. Aside from a few
soldiers throwing knives in the far corner, the chamber has emptied out for
the most part. Absinthe has taken a seat on the floor near the front of the
ring, Milos kneeling beside her, Zale standing at their backs. I’m careful to
keep my eyes from wandering in search of certain Dire who clearly didn’t
stay.
“You can head out Abs,” I call over. “I’m not sure how long I’m
going to stay, and I don’t want to keep you guys.”
“We were thinking of visiting the city square in an hour or so, do
you want to come?”
Spending the evening avoiding crowds of soldiers who’d pay good
money to watch me thrown from the palace roofs doesn’t sound quite as
tempting as curling up alone in bed.
“No, thanks. You guys go ahead.” I offer her an encouraging smile.
“Nice round today.”
Milos helps her to her feet, dusting the dirt from her back, and the
two of them disappear out the chamber doors. Zale remains, his stance
seemingly nonchalant, but there’s an intensity to his gaze.
“Is there a reason you’re still here?”
“Peia, you wound me. You sound as if you don’t like having me
around.”
I don’t see much of Zale back in Krua outside of training or
glimpses of him out on the town with Roman. But it seems here, I can’t get
rid of him. I decide to ignore him.
Rounding back to my opponent in the ring, I find Nicias standing at
the ready, his sword gripped firmly at his side. Teeth clenched, gaze
impenetrable, the makings of a dealer of death if I’ve ever seen one.
“Ready?” I ask.
A single nod, eyes gleaming in wicked delight.
I hang back, allow him to make the first move.
Yes, I’d relish the sight of Silas blood smeared across the sweat
strewn floor, delight in the whimpers radiating from his horribly mangled
body, but that isn’t my only motivating factor. I want to witness Nicias’s
conquest just as badly as Silas’s defeat, maybe more so. Something about
watching the underdog succeed in a world pushing for them to fail hits
close to home.
I can sense a plan forming, the wheels turning in his head, the
mechanisms slowly clicking into place. Shorn of warning Nicias advances,
charging me with his blade held high. I could deflect, block it with my own
sword, but I don’t, instead dancing around it. My tread is light, I’m perched
on the balls of my feet restlessly anticipating where my next move will take
me. My opponent looks taken aback, momentarily stunned by the aversion.
After a short pause, Nicias attacks again, this time throwing even more
force behind the strike. Ducking low, I evade the assault for the second
time, but rather than stepping away, I smoothly circle around catching him
off guard. The momentum from his attack and miss, has him keeled over,
perfect height for a swipe to the nape of his neck.
“Your dead.” I tap him lightly with the tip of my blade. Sighing, he
rises, his eyes turned down in frustration. “Assess. What was your first
mistake?”
“Agreeing to spar with the Ker of Krua.” Tapping my foot in
vexation, I wait patiently for a sincere answer.
Living all these years in the Ruin, I’ve learned to develop a thick
skin against my title.
Exhaling loudly, he answers, “You’re a far superior fighter than I.”
There’s no anger or weariness attached to his statement, it’s merely
an honest reflection.
“That has nothing to do with it. Look Nicias, each time you step in
front of a new opponent you must assess, gauge their strengths and
weakness, then adjust accordingly. So, what mistake did you make with
me?”
Resting his blade lightly atop his shoulders, he mulls over my
question. After some deliberation he deduces, “You’re faster.”
“Exactly, suggesting I can deflect your blows with ease. It takes
more energy to swing and miss then to swing and make contact. If I can
continuously evade your blows, you’ll run out of steam before I even
initiate my first strike.” He nods intently, visibly engrossed with my words.
“Each adversary is distinct, unique in their own way and must thus be
handled accordingly. Now, let’s go again.”
Determination caressing every feature, every muscle twitching with
resilience, he advances once more.
We continue our dance for hours, pausing sporadically to go over
strategy and tactics specific to different fighting techniques. By the end of
our training, not only has he been able to hold his own, but he even
managed to beat me a few times.
And for gods only know what reason, Zale has remained the entire
time.
With sweat slicked down my face, escaped hairs clotted in wet
globs along the neck of my uniform, I lay sprawled along the sparring ring
floor. Nicias sprinkles me with water from where he sits alongside me
before handing me the carafe. I sit up to take a gulp, noticing Galen hasn’t
moved an inch, his stare stagnant and glued to me. He looks poised and
ready to pounce between us, reminding me of my favorite CO in a
charming, aggressive way.
“I don’t think your boy cares for me,” I gurgle around a mouthful of
water.
“He doesn’t trust you.”
“I guess that’s wise.” Slumping back to the floor, I contemplate
remaining here for the rest of the evening. Maybe spend the night curled up
on the cool sweaty floor. “Is he always so grouchy?”
“Not usually, but you seem to be bringing out the worst in him.”
“I do tend to have that affect.” It takes him a moment to respond.
“You’re not how I pictured you’d be.”
Peering through one eye I notice him staring, his eyes lost in deep
deliberation.
“I’m not surprised, you probably pictured someone tall and
unsightly. Am I right?”
“You’ve got the unsightly part covered.” That earns him a light kick
in the shins. “Based on the rumors, I thought you’d be… Callous, vile, an
unfeeling shell of a girl, but I was mistaken. So utterly mistaken.” His last
words are so low I’m not sure their directed at me.
A less than subtle cough forces our attention elsewhere.
“Peia,” Roman utters from the edge of the ring, Zale standing guard
at his right. Aside from the five of us, the entire chamber is empty, the other
soldiers long since retired for the evening.
 “Same time tomorrow?” Nicias asks, a pang of uncertainty coating
his question.
“Of course,” I reply gifting him an amiable smile.
He stalks towards Galen who starts in on him, no doubt scolding
him for entering the ring with the ink covered likes of me. Grinning, I turn
back to my patiently waiting CO. Bounding out of the ring, I land within
inches of him, our feet almost touching. He doesn’t balk or step backwards,
his feet remaining anchored to their spot on the dark marble.
“You look pissed,” I comment.
“I am pissed.” Gaze affixed, stanch.
“And this is where I leave you two lovebirds,” Zale says. He gives
Roman a reassuring pat before stalking out.
“Is this about what happened with Bastien?” I probe.
“This is about you fighting without these,” he barks, tossing me a
bundle. The outer fabric wrapping the items is plain but expensively woven,
the silk a deep amethyst. Unfolding the parcel, I guess its contents before
the metal even graces my palm.
“Where did you get these?” Scrutinizing the exquisitely rendered
wrist cuffs, I notice the specks of blue sheen spattered across the rich
midnight hue of the metal. “Is that…?”
“Moonstone encrusted Lycantium.”
“These aren’t mine.” I wrap them up securely, carefully handing
them back.
“They’re new.” Roman roughly shoves them toward me.
“I guess someone’s been shopping.”
“I had them forged for you back in Krua, but since I’m well aware
of your prejudice against cuffs, I thought I’d wait to give them to you so
they wouldn’t accidently get left behind.”
Trying them on, I notice at once how immaculately constructed
they are. Fastening to my wrist like a second membrane, the cool metal fits
snug enough to avoid any blunders but not tight enough to hinder my
movements during a fight.
“They’re beautiful, Roman. Thank you,” I tell him sincerely.
“You’re welcome. But if I ever catch sight of you fighting without
them, I’ll run you ragged.” His words are serious, but his mouth betrays
him, the corners twitching ever so slightly.
“Way to ruin the moment.”
 We walk together towards the main foyer in a new relaxed silence.
I’m attempting to branch off towards the dining hall when Roman snatches
my arm.
“It’s after midnight. Hall’s closed”
“Any idea where the kitchens at?”
“Come up to my chamber. I’ll send down for something.”
Devoid of uncertainty or apprehension, I mutter, “Okay. But I want
two full trays of spicy links. Just for me.” I give him a pointed look for
good measure.
Grinning, he signals me to lead the way.
When we’ve almost reached his door, I ask what’s been troubling
me.
“Would you have stopped me?” I don’t need to go into detail.
“He made the right call, stopping you. Jakobian would have
punished you for it.”
“That wasn’t my question.” Stopping, he turns the full force of his
gaze on me.
“No, I wouldn’t have stopped you. This thing with Bastien will
inevitably come to a head at some point and I would rather be present when
it did.” Nodding my understanding, he continues. “But don’t think Bastien
will walk away unscathed from what he attempted this afternoon. He’s
going to wish Alek had let you kill him by the time I’m finished.”
Roman’s seething, his words drenched in venom. I’ve never seen
such malice spread across my CO’s face, contorting his features into
something feral.
His words leave me satisfied, soothed by a savagery that matches
my own.

OceanofPDF.com
 CHAPTER 21
Over the next couple of days, I fall into a comfortable routine. I begin each
morning running at dawn with Roman trailing behind. Afterward, I meet up
with Neoma in her sanctuary of tomes where we discuss ancient literature,
foreign cuisine, or debate the finest spirits offered across Lyca. I’m a firm
advocate for ale or mead, but she’s more of a wine gal.
It astounds me how easy it is to talk with her, how at ease I feel in
her presence. Most of the time I don’t want to leave the library, perfectly
content to waste away the day exploring the assortment of volumes, but I
can’t.
I still have a task to take care of.
After leaving Neoma, I take the lengthy route to the dining hall. I
indolently wander the halls, careful to seem cold and indifferent, while
taking detailed mental notes of every route to and from Kane’s quarters, the
number of guards’ present in each hallway, and the time of day with the
most and least activity. By now I’ve walked the route so many times,
become so familiar with each turn and twist of a corridor, I could make the
journey in complete darkness if need be.
By the time I reach the dining hall, it’s typically at an awkward
hour between breakfast and lunch, so I usually have the place to myself.
Occasionally, Roman will linger long enough to eat with me but he’s been
burdened with so much responsibility since Jakobian left that those times
are few and far between. The solitude doesn’t bother me. I’ve used the time
to become well enough acquainted with the kitchen servants that we’re now
on a first name basis.
During the afternoons, I’ll sometimes explore the grounds with
Absinthe or go a few rounds in the garden with Milos. A couple of times
Nicias has invited me down to the quarry to swim, much to Galen’s chagrin.
On those days, I make it a point to look extra menacing.
I haven’t had to carry out any executions with my Beta away, so
that’s a plus.
Dinners are awkward since my Alala remains distant, uttering as
few syllables as possible in my direction or merely ignoring me all together.
He’s still being pissy and since I’m not big on groveling, I let him brood.
I start my evening training sessions completing whatever drills
Roman orders. Usually, it’s a few rounds with one of the less malicious
Dire, but once he did have me spend an entire evening working on my
archery. That night was the worst. I was bored to tears after the first hour,
my muscles begging for a brawl. I’ve been lucky enough thus far not
having run into Bastien yet, but I’m sure my good fortune won’t last
forever.
At the end of the night, once the other soldiers have ceased their
training, Nicias and I fight into the wee hours of the morning. I push him
until he’s swearing, cursing the day I was born. We don’t stop until we’re
both drenched in sweat, begging for reprieve. Galen’s presence is an
unspoken requirement, though his perpetual stares and scowling are starting
to grow on me. Surprising enough, Zale is often present during our trainings
as well, only taking off once Roman appears.
Though my days are filled to the brim with new endeavors, it’s my
nights that I really look forward to. Beginning with that first night spent in
Roman’s chamber, we haven’t slept apart since. Whether it be my room or
his, we both manage to end up sleeping in the same location. Even though
all we do is eat, drink, talk, and sleep, the rumors have been running
rampant inside the palace with talk of Krua’s Grey Commander consorting
with his Beta’s Ker.
Imbeciles.
I have no doubt these little rumors have added to Alek’s sulking,
but I don’t owe him any explanations. He should know me better than that.
Frona seems particularly interested in the rumors, going so far as cornering
me in the training room to question me point blank about it. I divulged
vague, snarky details along with a look of lascivious delight.
I think it’s fair to assume she’s probably considering skinning me
alive.
One afternoon after a remarkably relaxing swim, Nicias and I,
along with our chaperone, are lazing about atop Gecko Man’s Hat, a rock
island in the middle of the northern sound. It’s a small landmass about a
mile long, a couple meters from shore. I’ve been told it’s the only place
every traveler visits at least once during their stay in Tairheia.
We selected a shady spot near the rocks ledge to relax, the ancient
oaks offering the perfect refuge from the sweltering sun. While sprawled
out in the grass in nothing but my undergarments and boots, my training
uniform laid out on a boulder a few feet away, I can feel my companion’s
gaze on me.
“What is it?” My eyes still closed. Nicias clears his throat beside
me.
“So, you really are covered?”
Ah, my stains.
I can feel his eyes scrutinizing each inked mark as he says this.
“Every inch, save for my beautiful face of course.”
“Did it hurt, in the uh- private areas?” Something in his tone
kindles my interest. Opening a single eye, I find his cheeks flushed, unable
to even meet my gaze. His discomfort is endearing, a sharp contrast to the
usual brashness of the common males. Turning to Galen, I find him
scowling, looking almost angry for some reason.
“Some, but it was more awkward than anything.” Propping myself
on an elbow, I continue. “As old as the shamazine may be, I could still feel
the evidence of his excitement poking me in the ribs while he worked on
my backside.”
I expect a laugh or snicker, but he remains silent, his expression
unreadable, the slightest hint of sorrow clouding the grey of his eyes.
“You take your title very casually,” he mutters.
Enraged, I sit up.
“There’s nothing casual about what I do. You think I enjoy killing,
that I take each murder lightly? There is nothing casual about it,” I repeat.
“But this is the hand I was dealt so I endure it as best I can. Wouldn’t you
do the unthinkable to protect Silas?”
Though my sister’s survival has remained undisclosed to many, the
entire Jakobian line seems to have been made aware. I don’t know why I
feel the need to explain, why I let his words affect me when I don’t give
others a second thought.
When he finally responds his voice is low, no louder than a
whisper, and filled with such sorrow. “No, I can’t imagine I would. You
must love your sister very deeply to go to such lengths for her.”
“I would go to the mat for her every time and she for me.” Iren
even suggested it once, to share my burden, but I wouldn’t allow it.
Practically ran my voice hoarse yelling her. I didn’t shred my soul beyond
recognition so hers would end up the same. I did it so hers would remain
intact, whole.
My words echo across the rock. I had no idea I’d been yelling.
“You’re very harsh.” He’s returned to his position on his back in the
grass, his eyes loosening their sorrow just a dash. The young man offers me
a timid smile.
“The world is harsh. Assess and adjust, remember?” I lay back,
giving him a tentative smile of my own. I almost forgot about Galen; the
shifty guard having slunk closer during my little outburst. By the looks of it,
I’d say he’d been ready to spring between the two of us. His devotion to his
charge is refreshing in a way, going far beyond what’s required of a guard.
The bond looks and feels like something other than just blind loyalty, a
tangible essence connecting the pair. On multiple occasions I’ve found
myself wondering if there could possibly be more there, something neither
has been able to fully acknowledge just yet.
We return that evening to find training cancelled for the day.
“Cancelled? Who the hell would cancel training?” I can’t help but
feel disappointed. I’d come to really take pride in the amount of progress
Nicias has shown in the few training sessions we’ve had together. I don’t
want to disrupt that by taking a night off.
“It was Silas’s idea. He wanted to give the soldiers the night off in
consideration of opening night at the Playground,” Nicias explains, running
a hand through his damp hair.
We’re seated side by side on the palace steps, letting the heat from
the sun dry our damp clothes. I untied my braid, allowing the loose waves
to tumble down my back, skimming the step above me. The young man
next to me, with his grey eyes and jagged russet hair, is so different from
the weary Alpha’s son from a few days ago, it’s hard to believe they’re one
in the same.
“What’s the Playground?”
“It’s an old colosseum in the heart of the city. It’s said to have
hosted the ancient clashes between man and monster, but those are simply
legends. Now, it’s the epicenter for entertainment in Tairheia. Food and
drink are served in the stands as the players fight it out in the arena below.
It’s a custom for the audience to place bets on the outcome.”
“Sounds very similar to our daily Trial.”
“I sincerely doubt that. Do most of your Trial’s end in graveyards.”
His tone is humorless, controlled, as if he doesn’t exactly approve of his
territory’s idea of fun. “Are you going to go tonight?” He smiles kindly, his
eyes hopeful. “I have a uh- friend fighting, someone I’d like you to meet.”
“Thanks, but I don’t think so. Watching soldiers try to rip each
other apart doesn’t seem like much of a night off.”
“Yeah, I can understand that. Maybe I’ll just invite him to one of
our trips to the rock instead.”
“That sounds great Nis.” I’m really hoping this friend of his isn’t
some matching making attempt.
With his eyes downcast, I can’t help but feel a tad guilty about
disappointing him. But the idea of roaming the grounds after hours with
most of the palace empty expunges any rueful feelings.
Naturally, my evening doesn’t go anywhere near according to plan.
While roaming the grounds, I run right into Absinthe who insists I
accompany them to the Playground. Alek’s in attendance as well and seeing
as he doesn’t outright grimace at the idea of me joining them, I take it as the
opportune moment to settle the waters. His pace compliments my own as
we fall back towards the tail end of the group.
“Look, Alek-” I start.
“No, let me. Look Peia, I’m sorry. I was jealous of all the time you
were spending with Roman, and I took it out on you. You’re my right-hand
Pei, the only person I can truthfully say I feel something for and it’s hard
seeing you devote your time elsewhere.” He won’t meet my eye, his gaze
trained on his feet.
Alek’s never been one to open up about his feelings nor be this
candid with me. I can sense by his unease the toll our little skirmish has
taken on him and listening to him bear his fears like this, all I want to do is
embrace him, forget about our words of drivel.
And I do just that.
Reaching up to hook him around the shoulders, I jerk him to me,
nuzzling my face in his shoulder. “You’re my Alala, Alek. That’s never
going to change, remember? You’re stuck with me until death I’m afraid.” I
playfully nudge his shoulder.
His returning beam eases the weight in my chest, lightening the
darkness of my soul.

OceanofPDF.com
 CHAPTER 22
Nicias’s description did not do the Playground justice. Old it may be, but
it’s majestic in every sense of the word. The ovular arena seems to be
forged of marble, the muted stone shaded the faintest tint of gray, almost
lilac, the color a neutral palate beneath the pronounced crimson splattering
the walls. There are five levels encircling the arena, each filled with stadium
rows of seating, though most remain standing, allotting the perfect aerial
view of the battles below.
The ground level of the arena where the fighting takes place is
about a hundred yards long, half that wide, the floor comprised entirely of
loosely compacted dirt. Patches of mud show the freshly saturated areas of
the previous fights. At one end, a goliath of a table, the structure almost
stretching from one side of the arena to the other, sits topped with an
assortment of rugged looking weaponry to accommodate those non-soldier
participants who don’t own their own weapons. Behind the table is a tall
iron gate, the entryway for servants and combatants alike.
We find a spot on the first level near the opposite end of the
arena. I take a seat on the banister allowing my feet to dangle over. The first
floor is elevated, the drop to the arena floor about ten feet down. Milos
takes off in search of refreshments while Absinthe settles in next to Alek,
who has taken the spot at my back, each arm pressed against the railing on
either side of me, his chin resting in the crook of my shoulder.
“You smell divine,” he murmurs into my neck, his teeth softly
scraping my ear at the lobe. I shudder under the contact, relishing the
warmth radiating from his body. “Damn, I’ve missed you. Stay with me
tonight.” His pleading is hardly necessary. I’d agree to just about anything
to ensure he continues his torturous fondling.
Less than a minute later Milos returns with our drinks, setting
down my pint on the banister beside my thigh. Finally turning my attention
towards the arena below, I notice my two favorite Dire fighting off a pair of
soldiers from Ressyx.
Bastien is death on swift legs as he lashes out at his opponent, his
blade hounding away at the poor bastard. Even Scabius is faring well
against his adversary, the two of them thoroughly matched with an axe
apiece.
“Why are they fighting in pairs?” I ask to no one in particular,
taking a long swig of the rich, full-bodied beverage, savoring the sweet
fruity flavor.
“It’s worth more points to win a double fight then a single.”
Cocking my eyebrow, I urge Alek to continue. “You see, points are tallied
for the victors during the weeks of the Trek and the fighter with the most
points by the end is named Canis Rufus, the Red Wolf of the Playground.”
“Ah, barbarity for sport. Sounds riveting. And will you be
participating in any of the Playground matches?” I turn back to the fight
below.
“Only if you fight beside me.” I can feel his smile creeping along
my bare shoulder, but I shrug him off. The thought of fighting in front of
this crowd, listening to the blood thirsty battle cries from the stands as I tear
another individual to bits, turns my stomach.
The fight drags on for another few minutes, a Dire victory
seemingly inevitable. I’m disappointed by the idea of Bastien and his
lackey earning victory points that I let my mind wander, allow my gaze to
drift along the stadium walls. I’ve just spotted Nicias across the way on the
second level when a slight movement in the dirt catches my attention.
The iron gate leading into the arena has shifted narrowly, a
miniature being now making its way over to the weapons table. I assume it
to be one of the servants at first, summoned for some reason or other, but
the unsteady tread and odd fascination with the weapons hints at something
else. The realization hits me in the gut, triggering an insurmountable
amount of terror racking through every fiber, every thread of my being.
For that is no servant toddling through the arena. It’s a child.
I tense up on instinct, my muscles frantic for flight. If anyone else
has noticed the child, no one has let on, the crowd still enthralled in the
same frenzy as earlier. Bastien hasn’t noticed either, his blade still locked in
battle with his opponent. The child is to his back, a mere foot from the edge
of the weapons table.
My arms push off the wall without thought, but a firm grasp around
my middle holds me in place.
“Peia, don’t,” Alek warns, his ironclad hands impenetrable.
The scene unfolds excruciating slow.
The child’s small arm reaching out for the overhanging hilt of a
broadsword. The clashing of steel as the weapons topple from the table in a
loud clash. Bastien’s startled expression as he turns towards the racket. The
Ressyx soldier’s victorious blow, knocking the steel from Bastien’s
distracted grasp.
His earsplitting roar is thunderous as he comprehends what the
child’s interruption just cost him.
I attempt once again to push off the wall, but Alek’s hold doesn’t
give an inch.
“Alek-”
“Peia stop!”
Damning my Alala, I twist in a flash, landing an elbow straight to
his face. I can hear the bone crack, feel the vibrations deep in my arm, but I
don’t care. My mind is vacant, my body acting on pure instinct as I plunge
from the wall.
I land brusquely, shifting into a roll that has me on my feet in
seconds, dirt flying up around me. Before thought or fear sets in, I take off.
My feet dig into the sand with every step, my arms pumping with might,
each muscle vigorously labored, as I tear across the arena desperate to make
it to the other side. My legs are rugged, resilient beasts of fortitude hauling
me closer, closer.
Bastien’s snarl is sickening, his teeth barred in unrelenting fury.
He’s retrieved his blade, his predatory steps slowly approaching the timid
child.
A wolf herding its prey.
I have two choices: unsheathe my blade for a block or aim for a
tackle. Considering the proximity of the child I may end up wounding him
by accident, so I decide on the latter.
Locking my legs, I thrust my body as low as possibly, landing a
direct hit to the shins, my shoulder meeting bone. Hooking my arms around
his legs like a steel enclosure, I crush them, forcing them to buckle and
yield. We both go down hard, the two of us landing in a heap of limbs, sand,
and chaos but I’m prepared, springing back to my feet in less than a
heartbeat. Unsheathing both khopesh in a single fluid motion, I direct my
right towards Bastien’s crumbled figure while the other shields against
Scabs impending approach.
“Stay behind me,” I command, urgently tucking the child in at my
back. Chancing a quick glance, I take in the sight of the boy up close.
He’s young, no older than five or six. His tattered frock is soiled,
hanging limply down to his knees, the material far too large for his skeletal
frame. The limbs peeking out beneath the grimy fabric are nothing but
bones, any muscle or fat having wasted away. His cheeks are hollow, gaunt,
the skin pulled tightly over the structures of his face. My eyes burn as they
find his, my rage visceral at the vacant expression plaguing his features as if
all essence has been drained from them.
This boy is no stranger to suffering, to sorrow. One who has
experienced loss firsthand and now lives in a world with no regard for
innocent life.
Damn the consequences.
Let the beasts throw everything they have at me.
Rounding on Bastien, I find him seething, eyes narrowed, cold and
calculating, his lips pulled tightly unleashing a deadly snarl.
The crowd of the arena has fallen silent, each pair of eyes trained
on the scene unfolding on the ground below. The Ressyx soldiers have
moved to the outer perimeter, an effort to avoid the oncoming bloodshed no
doubt, they victory already sealed.
Back on his feet, he advances toward the child. Sword pointed
outward, Bastien roars, “He cost me my victory! Now stand aside, bitch.”
I don’t move an inch, my knuckles white around the hilt of my
blades.
“Honestly Bastien, relax. He’s just a child.”
Jabbing his blade towards my chest he grunts, “He willingly
stepped foot in this arena during a battle.”
“He’s just a child.” The words repeated through gritted teeth.
“Child he may be, but he interrupted a commenced match.”
“It was an accident. Let me remove him and you may continue.”
His features soften as he states, with menacing calm, “Doesn’t
work that way Ker. He must now finish what he’s disrupted.”
Dread hits me in the gut at the implication.
 He can’t mean-
“You can’t be suggesting…”
Cutting me off like an overzealous child he states, “That’s exactly
what I’m suggesting. Now, step aside.”
Scabs advances as well, his ax readied for battle.
“Stay back both of you before I slay you where you stand.” Not a
threat, but a promise.
“We are in Krua no longer Peia and there’s no Jakobian here to
defend his precious Ker. Playground protocols are absolute.” The man is
maniacal. “Now, step aside.”
This can’t possibly be happening. An entire stadium full of
onlookers and not one utters a single protest against the idea of a child
facing off against beasts.
“Bastien, he’s a child. He can’t face the both of you.” I keep my
blades drawn firm, utilizing every bit of strength to keep from trembling.
“We were fighting pair on pair,” he croons, eyes glistening with
feigned innocence. “He is welcome to take an ally in the arena.”
And there it is, his core objective. The source of his unwavering
glee.
Pair off with the child or abandon him to die in this gods’ forsaken
arena. The choice is mine.
As if there’s any choice to be made.
Voice as adamant as the Lycantium steel of my cuffs, I answer,
“Fine.”
Sheathing the blades as swiftly as they were drawn, I gather the
child into my arms. He’s as light as a babe, his withered arms locking
firmly around my neck. He’s trembling, the quiet tears now drenching his
robe are cool against my shoulder. Walking us over to the entrance of the
arena, my eyes rove over the crowd seeking out the only individual I want
to see right now.
And as customary, he doesn’t disappoint.
As I near the end, I catch sight of my faithful CO leaping from the
wall into the dirt. He stalks toward me, closing the gap between us in a few
long strides, his face unreadable. I attempt to hand over the boy, but his
panic-stricken arms tauten around me.
“You’ll be safe little one, I promise,” I whisper, giving him a
reassuring squeeze. Tentatively, he releases his hold allowing me to transfer
him into Roman’s arms.
“Stay alive, Hypatia.” A command, his tone as hard and unfeeling
as the stone surrounding us.
I take one final look at the beautiful, brutal soldier standing in front
of me, memorizing the contours of his face, the hue of his eyes, the vicious
scar I’d give anything to have spared him from, before turning away,
striding back to the pair of Dire waiting to finish me off here in this pit of
dirt and blood.
I take my time returning, my pace leisurely slow as I tread back to
my opponents. Though I keep my held high and my gaze defiant, I’m
stalling, clawing at any extra time to strategize my plan of attack.
I’ve defeated both with ease in previous clashes, but I’m not foolish
enough to think that matters now. Those were one on one, single opponent
battles. And as familiar as I may be with their fighting techniques and
limitations, taking them on together isn’t going to be an easy feat. Facing
any double opponents would be challenging, but the personal vendetta the
two of them have against me is going to make victory especially taxing.
Ideally, I would try to face them consecutively instead of both at
once, but surely, they know this as well. My best bet would be for them to
surround me, taunting me like a mouse in a trap. That way I can attack and
disarm one, then face off with the other. I know they’re decent strategists
themselves but they’re also unbelievably arrogant. And if I can provoke
them, I may be able to survive the night.
Bastien’s eyes haven’t left my form as I make my approach. His
nefarious grin has transfigured his raven eyes into mere nicks upon his face.
Scabs hangs back, looking a few levels saner than his comrade, but his eyes
betray him, that same raging malice simmering just beneath the ginger of
each iris.
“Where’s your little one?” Bastien sneers. “You really should’ve
left him, Peia. You’re going to need all the help you can get.”
“I think I can manage just fine.” His eyes gleam as I shoot him an
impish wink. Retrieving a cord from my pocket, I securely fasten my hair at
the top of my head.
“I’ll ensure your death is as bloody as possible, a slaughter fit for
the notorious Ker of Krua,” he spits. “Your body will be so badly ravaged
even your precious Roman won’t recognize you amongst the carnage.”
Man does this asshole love to hear himself speak.
 “Then,” he continues, “as you’re rotting in your grave, I’ll do such
unspeakable things to those you’ve left behind. They’ll be begging to join
you”.
Reigning in my flaring temper, I reply with sheer coolness, “Tell
me Baz, has this little obsession you have with me been the true reason you
never get laid or is it the scar I gave you that scares all the females away?”
These are dangerous waters I’m now treading. “Is that the reason for the
perpetual foul mood? No girl of age desperate enough to lie with the
sadistic scarred Dire?”
His responding snarl could rival the Minotaur’s.
“I’ll rip out your tongue and feed it to the child,” he seethes, his
sword trembling from the pent-up rage.
Scabs has taken a few steps to the left, carefully slinking to the
outer edge of the arena. Without acknowledging the movement, I shift
slightly to keep him within view.
“Seems I’ve struck a nerve,” I tsk.
His smile broadens a second before I hear the dirt crunch near my
back. Whirling, I unleash both blades, blocking Scabb’s assault with my left
khopesh while the other slices cleanly through his left thigh. He roars in
pain as I stomp down on the gushing wound. The swine staggers forward,
landing on all fours.
“Stay down.” The order given through clenched teeth.
Instinct dominates as I throw my right blade over my shoulder, a
split second before Bastien’s sword meets mine. The clashing of steel
thunders across the arena, stirring the crowd into a rabid frenzy. My arm
burns from the weight of Bastien’s attack, from the power behind that
strike, but my block holds firm.
Forcing my blade outward, away from my back, I flip forward. Dirt
spraying, hair writhing free flying every which way, I hastily spring to my
feet, whirling on my opponent. Bastien wastes no time, his sword slicing
through the air, trained directly for my throat. I sheath my left blade,
utilizing that Lycantium cuffed wrist for a block instead. Staggering back,
Bastien hesitates a moment, his mouth contorting into an abhorrent glower
as he unhinges completely.
We continue our brutal scrimmage for gods only know how long,
until we’re both bloody and panting. My eyes burn, tears pooling along the
rims, as the sweat from my forehead continues its slow running torment. I
don’t risk wiping my face for the grim on my hands, a mixture of blood and
dirt, would inflict more harm than good.
It seems Bastien isn’t managing much better, his leather uniform
glistening with what I imagine to be a mixture of fluids in the light of the
torch flames. He appears exhausted, his chest heaving as if each breath is
gradually taking its toll.
I’m just as drained, my body begging for rest, but I was groomed
for this sort of aguish. Determination fuels each depleted fiber as I raise my
blade arm, readying my charge for the finishing blow.
Bastien’s head jerks up as if sensing his impending defeat, but
instead of fear or irritation lining those dark irises, its amusement that
riddles his vile features. My warning bell signals just a second too late as a
dagger sails across the arena, imbedding to the hilt in the tender section of
my upper arm.
My blade tumbles from my grasp as the pain consumes me, searing
its course through my body until agony is the only certainty I have in this
world.
Pain.
Roaring, insufferable, unrelenting pain.
It’s like a detonation, a release of the dormant beast within.
Retching the dagger free, I turn towards the assailant. Hunched
over slightly, his axe grasped feebly, stands Scabs at the other end of the
arena, exactly where I left him.
Idiot should have listened.
Hilt clutched between my right palm, ignoring the crimson
cascading down my arm at an alarming rate, I storm for the other end. My
legs are my steel, my armor, as they carry me across the distance.
The sheer shock coating his face tells me he didn’t think this plan
through. Most likely thought Bastien would have been able to finish me
after his little stunt with the knife.
He raises his axe anticipating a blow, but I leave my khopesh
sheathed, deciding to focus solely on the dagger I plan on returning in kind.
His moves are too slow as I land a kick to the gut, the force causing him to
slump forward, taking the brunt of the landing on his knees.
I rotate, hooking the nape of his neck with the back of my knee,
flipping the both of us forward. His axe goes flying as we land in the dirt.
Stunned by the movement, he lies sprawled out on the grubby arena floor.
 With my hand throbbing from the force of my grip, I plunge the
dagger clean through Scabs’ sword hand, implanting the metal into the
ground beneath. My arm is coated in the thick liquid spilling from my
wound as I admire my handiwork.
His undignified wail, a siren’s song to my delicate ears.
“I told you to stay down,” I grunt.
Primal instinct guiding my every move, I rear back to Bastien.
He’s two steps from me as I unleash the single blade at my back. I
skirt around the blow, keenly aware of the dizziness beginning to set in.
I’ve lost a lot of blood.
Too much blood.
I can tell by the bright trail that leaks in my wake that I need to end
this now, before the I’m too unsteady to even grasp a weapon, let alone
wield one.
My eyes scan the ground behind Bastien in search of the beautiful
mate to my blade.
One is not whole without the other.
“Easy there, Peia. You’re looking a bit unsteady. Need a hand?” His
voice caresses my bones, the intimate sound of a lover home at last. He
doesn’t rush or charge, circling me carefully, his tread unnervingly slow.
I swipe my arm along the length of my face, deliberately smearing
the gore across my features. I must look as savage as intended, for his snug
expression falters momentarily, allowing me the briefest of chances to
attack.
He blocks easily, sidestepping out of my path, but it wasn’t meant
to disarm him. Tumbling over, I land crouched in the dirt, my arm stretched
out to the side.
His expression is cold, stoic. His grip deathly tight around the hilt
of his sword.
Enough, time to end this.
His thoughts mirroring my own, he lunges forward, arm raised high
for slaughter.
I flick out my empty wrist, reaching for my second blade lounging
in the dirt. Sheathing the mates in single elegant motion, I block the brunt
of the assault with my interlocked cuffs. The blow racks through to my
center, my bones vibrating harmoniously in reply, but the Lycantium holds.
Pushing off with my cuffs, he staggers a step, allowing me to swing
a leg out beneath him. He stumbles, his feet teetering in their stance. Rising,
I land a solid kick to the chiseled stone of his stomach, his body recoiling
from the impact. His blade clatters to the ground as his body connects with
the dirt.
Panicking, he scrambles to regain possession of his blade.
I’m quicker.
Tramping down, my boot crushes the hilt of the sword into the
powdery dirt, a mere inch from his extended fingers. Freeing my mated
trinkets of death, I slip one under his chin at the frame of his throat, the
other finding refuge at the nape of his neck.
Both close enough to draw blood.
“Give me a reason,” I warn. The wooziness commences but I barter
to any heeding ears to help me keep my composure, to remain among the
living for a few more seconds. “Yield.”
Yield. Yield. Yield.
For the love of gods, YIELD.
Impatient and on the verge of collapse, I slice through neck and
nape in chorus. A small dribble of blood leaks out the front of his neck,
trickling down his leathery from. I assume its twin has caused the same
spillage in the rear.
Eyes defiant, rage radiating off him like an animal in heat, he nods
ever so slightly.
Stepping back, I return my blades to their rightful place, but I
stagger, almost collapsing from the movement. Gripping my wound with
my left hand, I totter towards the entry gate.
Placing one foot in front of the other, I focus on my breathing, my
posture. Victory is one thing but collapsing in the immediate aftermath
would surely put a damper on my triumph.
My eyes begin to droop, my gaze fixating downward, when a creak
from ahead snags my notice. As the iron gate groans open, a small figure
comes bursting out, hurtling towards me. Abandoning good judgment and
all common sense, I release my injury and scoop the little one into my arms.
His grip is excruciating as his arms hook around my neck. Pausing
momentarily, I notice Roman lingering just inside the entryway, his gaze
leaden. All vigor and spirit having been snuffed out during the spectacle.
Centering my eyes on him, I muster any remaining fortitude and
make the final stretch to my CO, the youngling perched tightly in my arms.
 Stepping through the archway, the entombing darkness depleting
the last of my drive, I have the good sense to set the child down safely,
before collapsing into my CO’s waiting arms.

CHAPTER 23
It’s the screams that wake me. The piercing, shrill sounds I’ve become all
too familiar with during my shifts in the Ruin dungeons.
Torture.
I bolt upright, reaching for a khopesh that isn’t there, my arm
barking in protest at the movement. I let out my own torturous wail as an
older woman, her shoulder length tresses the shade of dulled steel, comes
rushing over, scolding me for moving the bandaged limb.
Her words are clipped, rushed, a series of clicks and trills. Stunned,
I try to place the language soon to realize she’s speaking Udyska, a dialect
of the northernmost Forsaken Villages.
She’s an Omega.
Supporting my wound with my other arm, I push off the dingy
straw cot, giving the room a meticulous once over to assess for any
potential threats.
The chamber is tiny, confining, with a ceiling drooping so low
anyone even a few inches taller than me would have to hunch simply to
move about. Directly across my cot hangs a beaten wooden door, the sole
route in or out of the chamber. Pushed against the wall to my right is an
equally soiled cot, its shrieking occupant obscured from view by the slender
young woman tending to him.
So, that’s what woke me.
 His inkless flesh implies it isn’t either of my favorite
Dire.
“Lie back down at once,” the woman chides in Udyska as she urges
me back down to the cot.
Ignoring her plea, I swap positions, positioning my back towards
the other occupants in the room. “You can’t be speaking that in the capitol,”
I warn in my own broken version of the tongue. “You’ll be executed if
anyone reports back to the Pack about your origins.”
The fact that she herself hasn’t thought of this astounds me but
going off the crinkling at the corners of her eyes or that twitch near her
mouth, you’d think we just shared an exceptionally entertaining tale.
“I can speak what I please girl,” she retorts. “Kane would never risk
butchering his best healer. Now, lie back in that cot Ker unless you’d prefer
I strap you down.”
Well, she’s fun.
“I’m fine. Where are we exactly?”
“Playground infirmary.” Sensing disbelief, she adds, “No need for
anything fancy. Most fighters leave the Playground on two feet or in a box.
Now lie back while I go fetch your male.”
“What male?” Succumbing to her pestering, I take a seat on the cot.
“The handsome one covered in ink. He’s been waiting outside all
night. Wouldn’t even leave the room until I threatened him with a hiding.”
I snort picturing this petite old woman walloping the crap out of
one of the Dire.
I like her already.
Examining my busted arm, I notice it’s bandaged tightly, the sullied
fabric winding all the way around. The pain is unimaginable, my arm
throbbing from the slightest flex of my fingers. Panic instantly sets in.
If I can barely clench my fingers, how do I expect to wield a blade
effectively.
“How’s my arm?” My voice catching near the end.
“You’ll live,” answers a male. I don’t turn, that familiar irritated
tone recognizable anywhere.
“Much to your disappointment, I’m guessing. Thought you’d
finally gotten rid of me, didn’t you?” I tease, turning. My aim is to keep
things light, playful. I’ve decided I’m not ready to learn the full extent of
the damage.
 His expression is especially somber, his eyes clouded and murky, as
he answers. “Don’t ever do that again, Peia.” His gaze takes to the floor, no
longer able to meet my eye. “I’ve never seen you so pale, so lifeless…
Don’t you ever do that again,” he repeats.
“Enter the Playground?” The words are clipped, irritated.
“Loose that much blood.”
“Yes, sir.” His face softens, the smallest hint of a smile pressing
into the length of his scar. “How bad is it really?”
“The python’s head has seen better days, blade cut right through the
eyes. It’ll probably never look the same.”
The inked python coiling around my right arm, the serpent
spanning wrist to shoulder.
“I don’t care about the ink,” I huff. “How’s the arm?”
“Basha says it’ll be good as new, but no fighting. At least not for a
couple of days.”
My relief is tangible, an entity
unabridged.
“No complaints here. How long was I out?” I stretch out my other
limbs noticing they move with little discomfort.
“Couple hours. It’s almost dawn.”
“Where’s the boy?” Holding my breath, it’s now I who can’t meet
his eyes.
“Mathais is fine. Had to physically pry him from your bedside, but
he’s been safely returned to his mother.”
“And where the fuck was she while he was prancing through that
gods’ forsaken arena?” I growl.
“Trying to survive.” Realizing that explanation isn’t going to fly, he
continues. “She’s one of the pornai at the brothel near the docks. She was
working at the time.”
As much as I want to storm right over there and lash out at her for
leaving her child unattended in a territory full of testosterone driven soldiers
lusting for a kill, I settle my temper, shelving my rage. It’s not my place to
scold her for her neglect when she probably has no other choice.
“What of the other two?” The brutes unworthy of a proper
acknowledgement.
“Bastien’s fine, nothing irreparable. Scabius may never regain full
use of his hand. His days as a Dire are numbered. Once Jakobian returns
and hears of what transpired in that arena, he’ll be formally discharged.”
Good.
“I sent him to the palace infirmary. Wouldn’t chance him
recovering in here with you being so out of it.” After a beat he adds, “Your
friends were here most of the night until I sent them back. Even my cousin
came down here checking to make sure you were still among the living.”
“I had no idea Silas was so taken with me.”
Taking the seat at my side, careful to keep his distance, he adds,
“Nicias has improved greatly. You should be proud about how far he’s
come.”
“It’s all him. I merely offered a few suggestions.” At this, he
shrugs.
“Either way, I’m glad he has you watching out for him.”
Astonished by the complement, I merely nod. “Can we head back
to the palace?”
He moves to whisper to Basha, who seems to be having trouble
understanding him. Letting my impatience get the better of me, I quickly
interrupt in Udyska, asking her if we can leave. Exasperated, she relents but
not before a string of obscenities leave her mouth. There’s something
muttered about reckless, impatient fools who don’t deserve her services. I
decline to translate, deeming the statements too sensitive for my Grey
Commander’s innocent ears.
That sentiment earns me an exceptionally annoyed glare.
The sky outside is brilliant, illuminated in a golden glow by the
time we set out towards the palace. The journey back is slow, each of my
muscles now aching and exhausted, the stint at the Playground having
slowly caught up with me. It did help that Roman snatched up my sheath
without me having to ask.
Throwing my pride to the wind, I limp every step, ignoring
Roman’s wolfish grin beside me. When he finally offers to full out carry
me, complaining we’ll never make it back before sunset, I give him rough
shove.
And the movement’s worth ever torturous ache.
Smug bastard.
When we reach the palace entrance, he suggests I rest in his
chamber deeming it far safer than my own. He cancels our morning run and
insists I skip evening training that day. Feeling battered, I don’t argue. The
last thing I want to do is step foot in that training room plus, I could really
use the free time to solidify my assassination plot.
Escorting me up to his chamber, he instructs I rest for the remainder
of the morning, promising to send a healer to check on the arm around
noon. I barely manage a small hand flap of acknowledgement before
collapsing atop the bed. I yelp as I land a bit too brusquely on my wounded
arm, but the fatigue is too strong for me to care. A subtle breeze caresses my
face, followed by a touch so feather soft I’m sure it’s a conjuring, when I
finally succumb to my soul’s pleas for rest.
When I come to a few hours later, woken by a low rasp at the door,
the sun has reached its apex, varnishing me in a slick layer of sweat. After
given the order to leave the arm be by a nasty old bag, Basha now a doe-
eyed fawn in comparison, I set out to find Neoma. Since the library’s bound
to be violence free, I’m still technically taking it easy.
With great pain and difficulty, I eventually manage to sling my
sheath across my back.
Injured or not, I don’t dare roam around the Alpha grounds
unarmed.
After making the long, slow slog down to Neoma’s library, I’m
met with sheer disappointment when I discover the chamber locked, its
keeper nowhere to be found. Electing to feed my famished body instead, I
make it halfway to the dining hall before the stares from other soldiers
become too irksome. Altering my course, I find myself marching through
the main courtyard, out towards the entry tunnel.
Unaccompanied, alone except for the ever-allegiant steel slung
across my back, I blindly follow my gut out into the heart of Lyca.
With the sea flanking me to the left, I decide on the route running
deeper into the center of the territory. The streets leading to the agora are
even more crowded today than they were when we first arrived in Tairheia.
Despite the roaring sun, children scuttle about in their bare feet slinging
rocks at one another. Vendors of every kind line the cobblestone path,
offering samples, making claims about their goods reigning supreme over
others.
A particularly pushy young confectioner refused to leave me be
until I sampled one of his pastries. Upon explaining I hadn’t any drachmae,
he still insisted on me taking one. After handing me the fruity, flaky pastry,
he continued to watch as I devoured the delicious treat in a single bite.
 The notion that it might’ve been poisoned did cross my mind, but I
was too ravenous to care.
Leaning in close he whispers, “I know what you did yesterday at
the Playground. You’re different then legend speaks.” Facing him wholly,
eyes searching eyes, he says, “We do not forget those who help our own.
Striking Ker, you have more than one friend out here, I promise you that.”
Speechless, I merely nod and head back into the throng of bodies,
eager to get lost among the crowd.
After dazedly ambling along a few more bustling streets, I collide
with a tiny scurrying figure. Noticing the bump was deliberate, I kneel in
the dirt in front of the lively young girl.
“Are you alright?” I ask half-amused by the smirk dwelling on
her tan, chubby face.
“This is for you,” she replies, handing me a tiny, curled
parchment, outright ignoring my question.
“What’s this?” I eye the piece suspiciously, rising to take a quick
scan of the area. Ruling out poison based on smell and the fact that she
seems to be fine after handling it, I take the parchment from her hand.
Her eyes twinkle with pride as she explains.
“Someone paid me three drachmas to give it to the short girl
covered in scribbles.”
With this she’s gone, darting back into the horde of people.
Scribbles?
Unfolding the parchment, I almost drop it right where I stand when
I read the single word scrawled on the papyrus.
Talanichi.
The Pathfinder.
How I remain upright is a mystery.
Mustering enough semblance of sanity, I study the road for any
signs of the little girl or her employer. With the little one having vanished, I
scan the area once more until a large, lurking figure near the end of the lane
catches my eye, his face concealed by the shadow of his cloak. He makes a
dash down the adjacent alley when he notices my attention. Convinced he
must be the one responsible for the mysterious correspondence, I throw any
caution for my injury to the wind, taking off after him.
Down alley after alley, far out past the most congested section of
town, I finally gain on my prey. Following him up a narrow spiraling
staircase, he disappears through a thick wooden door that presumably leads
to the building’s rooftop. Hoping the doorway to be the single entrance in or
out, save for a long leap down, I slow my pace. Gingerly nearing the door, I
silently unsheathe a lone khopesh, taking it firmly in my single usable arm.
Following a mysterious figure, one who’s clearly up to no good, all
while one fighting limb is out of commission.
Brilliant, Hypatia. Just brilliant.
Breathing forced steady, sweat trickling down the curve of my
spine, I cautiously push through the doorway.
It’s mid-day, the blinding sun cresting in the sky, so I give my eyes
a moment to adjust.
The terrace is an old, undeveloped area of crumbling clay and
gaping holes. If I don’t stride carefully, I may end up falling right through.
Treading lightly, I give the area a once over searching for any hiding spots
my potential adversary may have taken.
Stationed directly across the doorway, back to me, arms braced on
the side railing, stands the shadowy figure from the agora. From this
distance I can tell he’s tall, maybe a foot or so taller than me, with muscular
legs stretching from trousers cut off at the knee, his dark leather books
caked with dust, his cloak lying discarded at his feet revealing a loose tunic
billowing in the gentle breeze. The limbs poking out from his sleeveless
garment are lean but well defined, clearly not a stranger to labor. From the
back, it appears that the sections of his head along his ears have been
shaved completely, the middle housing hair a blend of deep russet and light
sand, the locks arranged in twin braids tied off at his nape.
With my steps within earshot he finally turns, unveiling a pair of
haunted eyes, the marigold hue a sharp contrast against my own. These eyes
that have continually blessed my memories all while haunting my
nightmares.
It can’t be.
It’s not possible.
The tears swell, the salty droplets streaming down my cheeks in
torrents. For presented in front of me, have seemingly abandoned his refuge
of Elysium, stands my beautiful baby brother.
Eon.
“Eon.” I voice the realization aloud, the word a benediction across
my lips, scarcely more than a whimper. The trembles once again plague me,
but this time I surrender myself over, allow them to drag me to my knees.
In a second, he’s there across from me, our knees touching on the
ground. His hands force my face upward, the calloused thumbs brushing my
cheeks as his eyes roam over every inch.
“How?” That single insignificant word all I can muster.
“I’m craftier than they expected,” he offers, that familiar Eon
swagger in tow. I can tell he’s trying to lighten the exchange but with my
breathing hitched and my chest caving in, I’m not sure I can muster much
more than a few measly syllables. Sensing this, his tone turns solemn. “Kai
sent me down the road while he went back for you and Iren. He told me to
find the tallest tree in the densest section of the forest and wait for you to
track me. I didn’t want to, I couldn’t. I told him that. I told him I needed to
go with him, but he was adamant. Used his best Beta of Nymphai
impression on me. I couldn’t argue with that, but I didn’t necessarily obey
either.”
“Keeping just a few paces behind, I ran after him back towards the
village. We were so close, the glowing embers within sight past the tree
line, when he was spotted. Seven of them, swift and silent, descended upon
him with blades as large as you, while he sported nothing but a few knives
strapped across his chest. He was holding his own just fine when I jumped
in, throwing my single dagger at some giant’s backside. His roar distracted
the others, gave Kai and I enough of a diversion to take off into the
woods.”
“We reached the river’s edge, near the border. The current was
vicious, a snarling beast of surging water, but he was sure we would make
it. He said we needed to jump, carry the water downstream until it
mellowed, then hike back the long way around to catch them by surprise.
He became such an adept liar, that brother of ours, that I believed him. So,
when he said jump, I obeyed. Except…” His words halt midsentence, the
memory lodged in his throat, strangling him.
“He didn’t jump.” I finish for him.
“No.” His tone is bitter, resentful. “That fucking bastard let me
escape without him while he went off to die trying to save the two of you.”
I flinch at the curse, the vulgarity unusual coming from the sweet
brother of my past. I don’t blame him. Hearing the story now, learning how
everything unfolded that night, I can’t help but be pissed at Kai, too. He
should’ve gone with Eon. They both should’ve jumped into the water that
day.
Eon’s eyes have dimmed, that striking hue fogged over, his mouth
set in a partial snarl as he toys with the memory.
“Eon?” I probe, summoning him back to me and away from the
history neither of us can change. The ploy works, the word tugging him
back to the rooftop.
“I tried to fight the current, tried to climb out of the river to make
my way back, but by the time I reached a bank gradual enough to climb, I
was already miles downstream. I didn’t realize it then, but I was at the
eastern border of the Zalamendies.” The ruthless Omega tribe in the
northern sector of the Forsaken Lands. “A unit was dispatched to find the
intruder and bring him to Eumaeus. He took one look at me and realized
who I was. He said he knew the Beta of Nymphai, said his offspring were
always welcome in the Zalamendies. I explained what happened the night
of the raid, at the village. He dispatched a brigade immediately, but they
returned with nothing. They said it was a massacre, the entire village wiped
from the realm. No survivors.”
“And you’ve been with Eumaeus this entire time?”
“I had nothing else, no one else,” he emphasizes, “so I stayed
with them. Trained with them.”
“Cut your hair like them,” I joke, teasingly pointing to his unique
trim.
“I had no idea you survived until word spread about Jakobian’s
Ker.”
I flinch at my title falling from my brother’s tongue, the flush of
shame instantly branding me as the traitorous filth that I am. My gaze hits
the floor, my mind’s eye traveling up the black stains inked along my arms,
up my neck, displaying all the blood tainting my hands, debasing my soul.
“Why did he allow you to live but not them?” I don’t miss the
accusation or contempt steeping his words.
I don’t respond immediately, carefully mulling over each word in
turn until I stumbled across the last one.
Them.
He thinks they both died that night. Eon has no idea I wasn’t the
sole child of Nymphai to survive the raid.
“Iren’s alive,” I blurt out. His eyes widen, his body falling into me
on the dirty roof floor. I tuck him under my shoulder, a difficult feat
considering his new size. I hold him to me, rocking the brother I’d thought
I’d never see again.
“I knew it.” The words an internal musing. “I knew there had to
be a reason.”
Finding his eyes brimming, my own begin to burn. I understand
his meaning.
He couldn’t accept that after everything the Pack had done to our
family, I would willingly join Jakobian just to save my own life. He
believed there had to be another reason.
Despite the stories of death and blood, the legends of murder and
mayhem by my hands, my brother’s faith in me remained intact.
I crush his figure further against my own. We sit like this until the
tears have run dry, the afternoon sun having traded numerous positions in
the sky.
“How is she?” he asks once his trembling has subsided.
“She’s brilliant Eon. Strong, smart. She’s studying to be an
herbalist. She’s beautiful, as lovely as our Second was.” As our mother was.
“She’s still the same Iren. Still happy and carefree, even after everything.”
My chest warms with thoughts of my sister.
“You’re still the same Hypatia.” Raising a hand to my protests, he
continues. “I was at the Playground yesterday. I saw what you did in that
arena.”
“Almost kill two fellow Dire?”
“Risk everything for a child you didn’t even know. That’s exactly
the type of trouble the Talanichi I knew would get into. The ink hasn’t
changed who you are, Peia.”
I smile at the familiar sentiment.
“A friend expressed something very similar once.”
“Well, they were right. If anything, it makes you look tougher.
Less like a sappy weakling.”
Gazing at my brother now, the chiseled jaw, straight nose, the fully
formed physique, I can’t quell the sorrow. Another Madaeus child grown
into a capable adult without any family to bear witness the marvel.
I don’t even try to restrain the new flow, merely allowing them
to trickle as they please.
“How did you survive it, Eon? Being on your own? I’m a
complete wreck and I have Iren.” Having lost all strength in our limbs,
we’ve been lying side by side for a while now. The tension grows as I wait
for his response.
“It was hard, at first. I felt like dying. Hoped for it more than
once.”
Turning, I find my brother has his eyes closed tight, the creases
above his brow a testament to his struggle, to the memories he’s fighting to
keep at bay. Not wanting to cause him further anguish, I prompt him to
stop. “It’s okay Eon. We don’t have to get into it.”
The rise-fall of his chest evens out, his words a mere whisper along
the cool breeze. “I was alone, until I was found.” Not quite understanding, I
keep quiet. “His name was Bose. He wasn’t the first to find me, but he was
the one that finally brought me home, if that makes sense.” Smiling,
seemingly lost in the past, it takes him a few seconds to continue. “When I
first made it to the Zalamendies, I was a shell. I wouldn’t speak, barely ate.
I couldn’t stand it anymore. At times, I found myself praying for death.”
I lose sight of my beautiful brother for a moment, the stinging
accompanying my quickly blurring vision.
“And then he came along. The boy with the chocolate eyes and
broken smile. Eumaeus’s youngest. He brought me back. Reminded me
there was a ground beneath the rubble.”
“He sounds lovely,” I whisper.
“He was. Gods’ above, he was.”
“What happened?”
“The Red Lung. They said there was nothing that could be done.
He went slow and it wasn’t pretty.” By now I can barely see, my face a
mirror of my poor brother’s.
“I’m so sorry, Eon.” Sitting up I fling myself on him, the angle
awkward though neither of us heeding the discomfort.
“I’m not. As painful as it was to lose him, I still thank the Fates
every day for having the honor of knowing him. Loving him. I’d never
known how magical living could really be before him. I think he might
have been my sky. My anchor in the deep.”
Gods above, Eon.
I just can’t seem to find the words, so I don’t even try.
We lay huddled together, laying and talking, laughing and crying
some more, for what must be hours considering the sun has almost
completed its descent. Panic overwhelms me as I realize how late it’s
gotten. I know Roman will be wondering where I’ve gone off to. Probably
stalking about with that endearing scowl.
Dreading the idea of losing my brother again, I contemplate not
returning at all.
Taking off now, we’d make it to Krua in a few days, surely before
any word has spread of my departure. But even if we do manage to make it
there in one piece and ahead of the news, I’d still have to figure out a way
into the High Den to retrieve my sister then hatch an escape route out of the
Pack Territories. We’d have to make it across the border, venture deep into
the Forsaken Lands to reach the Zalamendies. Even if Eon is right about
Eumaeus and his sanctuary for the Madaeus line, my ink is too noticeable,
to well-known across Lyca. We’d have the Pack right on our asses the entire
journey.
Shelving my escape plan for the time being, I ask Eon what’s been
hounding me. “What are you doing in Tairheia?”
“I had to see you. I wanted to come and find you sooner, but
Eumaeus knew I’d never make it inside the Ruin. He told me to wait until
the Trek. He had a unit readying to infiltrate the capitol during the festival
and sent me along.”
“Infiltrate the capitol?” Four years later and my brother is still an
open book. I read the hesitation, the questioning of whether to trust me with
this information. His uncertainty stings, but I don’t blame him. I’m the one
covered head to toe in Kruan ink.
After another moment, he starts. “Something is stirring in the
Lands, something old and ancient, festering in the Pack Territories, slowly
making its way across the border.”
“What do you mean festering? Like an ailment?”
“Eumaeus describes it as a toxin of the mind, an infection that
taints the soul. Forces are gathering across Lyca in worship of this new
Lazarus, this resurrected goddess. Her acolytes call her ‘the Mother.’ Not
much else is known, but her reach is extensive. Even the Shades are said to
be devoted to her.”
The Shades.
The most ruthless mercenaries on the continent.
“Why come here looking for her?” This talk of ‘the Mother’ has my
interest peaked.
“The Pack and the Mother are so closely linked, Tairheia is where
the heart of her reach is.”
“This is the first I’m hearing about this so-called ‘Mother.’ Do you
think the Pack follows in her name?”
“That’s what we’re here to find out, deduce whether she’s ally or
adversary and go from there. There’s actually something I was hoping you
might be able to help with.” He quickly fishes something from his pocket.
It’s a small piece of parchment, similar to the one I received earlier, the
same neat scrawl written on the front, only this time the inscription is
longer and in a tongue I can’t quite place. “I’ve been working on the
translation for some time now, but I just can’t seem to get it right.”
“What language is this? It’s unlike any I’ve ever encountered.”
Studying the inscription, I realize I’m able to vaguely identify a few of the
function words though the translation isn’t exact, more of a close variation.
“We’re not entirely sure, but I’m convinced it must be some sort of
variant of the Archaic Tongue.”
“You mean the Tongue of the Gods?” The thought is absurd. “It’s
not impossible. That language has long since been forgotten. Not to
mention forbidden.”
“Maybe not.” There he is, my mischievous little brother. Even now
I still see that same defiant gleam in Eon’s eyes. “Forbidden doesn’t
necessarily mean forgotten. You should know this, Tala.”
“Let me take this with me. I may be able to find help on the
translation.”
Eon’s eyes widen in alarm. “You can’t show this to anyone, Peia.”
“I meant the library. There are floors of tomes down there, one of
them is bound to be useful.”
Eon hands the parchment over without hesitation. “Take it with
you, see what you can find.” My brother starts to rise hauling me to my feet
along with him. “You should be getting back. Wouldn’t want them sending
out search parties, now would we.”
Panic stricken I blurt out, “Will I see you again?”
My throat tightens, my lungs immobilized in trepidation of what
my brother’s answer might be.
“Of course, Peia,” Eon answers, pulling me into a tight embrace.
“You won’t be getting rid of me that easily. I’ll come find you as soon as
it’s safe again. Same note, same method, but next time try not acting like a
complete lunatic. I expected a little more stealth from the Ker of Krua.”
 “Should’ve just thrown a dagger your way, maybe that would’ve
been stealthy enough for you.” I can feel my brother’s laughter coursing
through our embrace.
“Same old, Talanichi.”
“Not quite.”
“I’ll leave first, then you follow a couple minutes later. Be safe
and I’ll see you soon.”
With a final squeeze and kiss to my temple, my phantom of a
brother disappears, leaving me debating whether he was ever really here.
My mind may simply be shattered beyond repair, conjuring up illusions to
aid with the pain.
Either way, I’ll take it.

OceanofPDF.com
 CHAPTER 24
Gripping the parchment likes it’s a lifeline, a tangible piece of evidence
proving Eon is alive, I rush back towards the palace. Every step towing me
closer to the stone prison is one step further from my brother, but I
continue.
This isn’t the time for selfishness. There are more important
things at stake.
Upon reaching the courtyard, my arrival’s thwarted by a group of
Dire. Spyridon, the clear leader of the bunch, slinks toward me, crushing
my good arm in his grimy fingers.
“So, the deadly Ker returns. Is it true you’re now the protector of
babes?” His hiss is accompanied by an unwarranted level of spite.
“Pathetic.”
Snatching my arm free, I violently shove him off. “Lay another
hand on me Spider, and I’ll rip your throat out.”
His wolfish grin is his only response.
“Peia!”
A slight twitch of the brow and he’s off, slithering back towards
his company.
Foreseeing the chastising my future holds, I brace myself for the
string of expletives bound to come shoveling out of my CO’s mouth.
“Dammit, Peia. Where the fuck have you been?”
Right on cue.
“I was restless stuck in this place. Thought I’d see what the town had
to offer.” I try my best at nonchalance.
“See what the town had to offer?” Each word delivered comically
slow. “So, you thought you’d wander around the capitol, alone, with one
busted arm, just for the hell of it? Is that what I’m hearing?” He’s pissed,
his eyes a violent forest set ablaze. Fists clenched, arms crossed tightly over
his chest, each muscle straining under the tension.
“That’s the basic gist of it, yes.” That scowl of his could make
honed Dire cry. “But the arm’s not so bad.” I quickly tack on, dramatically
flex out the limb.
After a considerably long breath, he says in an even tone, “Peia.”
A look of relief relaxes his harsh features, his hands now unclenched and
hanging limply by his sides. “Scabs is out of the infirmary and when no one
had seen you all afternoon, I thought...”
He doesn’t finish. For the first time since I met him, Roman is at a
true loss for words. The emotion in his voice, paired with the pain reflected
across his features, leaves me feeling uneasy, like I’ve intruding on
something private, something Roman wouldn’t want anyone seeing.
“If you thought little old Scabby would be able to take me out,
you’re sorely mistaken. I’m afraid it’s going to take a lot more than some
cavalier brute to get rid of me.”
“This isn’t a joke, Peia.”
“Lighten up, Roman. I was just roaming through the bazaar
causing innocuous mischief, gracing the townsfolk with my presence.
Didn’t unsheathe a single blade.” His eyes narrow a fraction.
“Look, until the healer gives the all clear, just stay close to the
palace and away from any of the other soldiers. After yesterday there’s
more than a few who’d cut off an arm just to go a few rounds with you.”
“Fine,” I concede, eager to be off before Roman has a chance to
doll out an actual punishment. “I’ll be in the library.”
Stopping off at the kitchen, a new one I manage to locate after a
half hour search, I grab some leftover lamb and rice, stuffing all of it into a
slice of stale flatbread. The food is cold, but no one would ever know it
based on all the moaning coming from my direction.
I guess the whole brother back from the dead scenario sidetracked
my raging hunger.
My limbs feel oddly rejuvenated as I reach the library just as
Neoma is exiting, her familiar high collar and long sleeves a comforting
sight. She gasps, startled, but offers a radiant smile when she realizes it’s
me.
“What are you doing here so late, little wolf. Surely there must be
younglings about who need your defense,” she says with a slight gleam.
Coming from anyone else I might start swinging but coming from her, I
don’t take it quite so harshly.
“Thought I’d join the old hag down in the library, but it seems
she’s in a bit of a mood.” I almost flinch as I realize what I said. Although
I’ve come to feel comfortable around Neoma, it doesn’t change the fact that
she’s the capitol archivist and a high-ranking official in the Alpha’s
territory. It most definitely isn’t wise to be throwing around insults.
Detecting my alarm, her face widens into an ear-splitting grin.
“Testy young thing,” she teases. “To what do I own the honor this
evening?”
“I wanted to check out a few of the volumes but I can see your
leaving so I’ll…”
“Nonsense,” she interjects, cutting me off. “I’m just returning
some papers to Kane’s chamber and coming right back. Feel free to roam
around while I’m gone.”
Eyeing her suspiciously I ask, “You’re not afraid of leaving me
alone with the tomes.”
“Not at all,” she laughs, eyes narrowing subtly, “unless you plan
on killing some of them.”
Her quip is so unexpected I snort, my loud accompanying laugh
echoing along the corridor. Neoma’s face contorts into something akin to
revulsion before she too lets out a bellowing cackle, sending me deeper into
my fit.
The clearing of a throat ends our moment.
“Am I interrupting something?” Roman’s clearly amused by what
he just encountered. The smile is subtle, the type unique to my CO alone,
but a stunning sight that has me beaming. Noticing my response, his smile
grows slightly, the movement tugging at that grisly scar.
“This one’s too much,” Neoma says, patting me on the back.
“Don’t know how you put up with her.” She takes off down the corridor, her
reverberating laugh diminishing as she travels down the stairwell.
“What are you doing here?”
“Earlier, I uh. I was harsh.”
“You’re always harsh, Roman.” It comes out a laugh.
“I don’t mean to be,” he pushes. “I just don’t always seem to think
straight when it comes to your safety.”
For some mysterious reason, whether intentional or not, his
answer ignites an ember deep between that southern region, awakening a
beast that had been dormant since leaving Krua. The thought excites and
terrifies me all at once.
Now don’t get me wrong, I know Roman is attractive, gorgeously
brutal in a way that makes females squirm between the thighs. But I’d never
thought of him in that way. He was too important to my survival, to
essential to my existence to even allow him near my late-night fantasies.
But seeing him standing there across the hall, with that stupid subtle grin
sneaking across his features, has my body craving his touch.
And he knows it.
Damn.
For some inexplicable reason, I’m certain he knows exactly what
I’m thinking. His darkening eyes, his gaze burrowing holes into my
indecent thoughts. I expect a flush of shame or shift of discomfort, but it
never manifests.
I’m not embarrassed about this. Not with Roman.
He waits silently, he too expecting me to blush or shrink away.
When it’s clear that I won’t, his smile turns into a full-blown smirk.
Stepping closer, holding out a thin piece of parchment, he adds softly, “I
have a surprise for you.”
I know instantly what he’s holding, the gift he’s brought me.
My juvenile beam makes him laugh, a genuine heartwarming sound
that rings across the hallway. Closing the distance between us in one last
stride, he leans over, whispering, his lips tenderly caressing the shell of my
ear. “I wish my presence always brought you such joy.”
Passing me the parchment, I recognize my name written in my
sister’s delicate script. My heart thunders in my chest from anticipation.
Damning the consequences once again, I fling my arms around my CO and
this time, much to my amazement, his arms squeeze me in return.
“How did you get this?” I ask against his chest.
“I told Thaos to send word from Iren any time after our departure. I
know how nervous the two of you get being separated and I thought this
might help ease some of that.”
Pushing back, I take a hard look at my beautiful CO. Skimming a
knuckle along the length of his scar, I murmur, “Thank you Roman. How
can I ever repay you?”
“Repayment isn’t necessary,” he answers, his lips returning to my
ear, “but I wouldn’t be opposed to more of those exquisite smiles sent my
way.” I laugh, nudging him. “Write your reply and I’ll have it sent as soon
as you’re finished.” He begins retreating, his footsteps heading down the
hall.
“I’ll be up soon,” I call after him.
Rushing into the library, I don’t waste anytime ripping into the
small letter in my hands. The message is short, but sweet. Lovely as my
sister. She asks about me and how the Trek is going and reassures me that
everything is fine back in Krua. My stomach drops when she inquiries
about Alek. I haven’t spoken to my Alala since the day at the Playground,
but I’m not exactly in any rush. I imagine we’re both reasonably pissed
with one another. She closes with her love and sends me her best.
I read through the letter three times, my smile growing infinitely
larger with each skim. After the last run through, I head down to Neoma’s
office, snatching a parchment, ink, and quill from the large desk, vowing to
divulge the thievery upon her return. My letter is longer, a message filled
with the flowery descriptions of the lands and sea of Tairheia, images of the
bustling agora, and accounts of all the delectable food the capitol has to
offer. I don’t mention anything that could cause her to worry or dampen her
mood, giving her only a small picture of the beautiful land I’ll certainly
never be able to show her. I don’t dare risk any mention of Eon in case the
letter falls into the wrong hands.
Folding up the parchment, I return the ink and quill to Neoma’s
desk. She returns a few minutes later, mumbling in greeting before retiring
to the confines of her office. Retrieving a tome on ancient dialects, I scour
every inch until the characters become no more than inks blobs on
parchment, not anymore discernable than the ink staining my own skin.
Surrendering to exhaustion and annoyance at having failed to locate
anything of use about Eon’s message, I bid Neoma goodnight.
With the letter to Iren firmly in hand, I retire for the evening
without any thought to where I’m heading. Hurrying to his chamber, I find
the door unlocked. Considering it an invitation, I enter san knocking. I plop
down beside him on the bed, confident he has yet to fall asleep. His eyes
remain shut, but I swear I catch the slightest crinkle of his scar.
Snuggling in for the night, I allow fantasies of what I would’ve
done with Roman, had we found time alone in that library tonight, to lull
me into oblivion.
OceanofPDF.com
 CHAPTER 25
The following morning, after Roman agrees to send my letter as soon as
possible, we head down to the infirmary to check on my arm. I try to
convince him to go eat, that I’ll be fine on my own, but he insists on
coming to hear the verdict firsthand. After a few minutes of prodding and
prying, and a half hour of pleading, she finally gives me the all clear to run
and train.
After a rushed breakfast filled with smug grins and enough links
to feed a small army, Roman and I take off on our run. We take our usual
path, veering of course on the way back to relax in the dilapidated temple.
We discuss weapons and fighting tactics, him asking about my life in
Nymphai while shedding light on his upbringing in Krua. We let the hours
dwindle away without a single mention of what transpired at the
Playground.
When we return, Roman heads out to meet with some of the other
higher-ranking officials while I slink off to find something to eat. In the
dining hall, I take a seat by Milos and Absinthe, the two halfway through
their meal. Zale joins our table a few minutes later, taking a seat at my side.
They ask about my arm, commenting on their mutual hatred towards
Bastien, but other than that, we eat in comfortable silence. After the meal,
we head towards the training chamber. My limbs are itching for violence,
the day of rest having made me anxious for another fight. Just as we reach
the chamber entrance, I suffer the misfortune of running smack into my
Alala.
“How’s your arm?” Alek asks frigidly, his face void of any real
semblance of concern. My eyes narrow in on the bruising around his nose,
the swelling around the bridge, those dark patches beneath his eyes. All my
doing.
 “That looks like it fucking hurts,” comments Zale, amusement
dancing in his eyes.
With a glower that could rival my CO’s, Alek counters, “I’m
surprised Roman let you off your leash. Guess you were finished on your
knees.”
I’m expecting a fist to fly, but Zale only snickers. Alek looks
ready to kill when I finally bring the conversation back to me.
“The arm’s fine, okay. Now, are you two done or should I get a
measuring stick?”
“I never knew how much fun you were, Ker.” Zale laughs even
harder. “I’ll just be right over there.” He directs that last part at Alek before
sauntering off towards the soldiers gathered just inside the chamber.
Taking another look at my Alala, I feel awful about the damage I
inflicted, but I’m not ready to mention it. He doesn’t respond, a slight nod
of the head the only evidence that he heard me. Infuriated, I make to enter,
but his words force me to stay.
“What the hell were you thinking,” he hisses. “It wasn’t your
place to step into that arena. You should have stayed out of it.”
“Piss off, Alek. I don’t need a lecture.”
“You have no idea what you’ve done with your little stunt at the
Playground.” He’s yelling now. “He’s going to punish you for this, Peia.” I
see Zale turn our way again, but I wave him off.
“And how is he going to do that? Hmm? Maybe send me out
killing people?” That shuts him up. “I couldn’t care less about his
punishment, Alek. I wasn’t about to let that child die just to avoid some
extra shift in the dungeons.”
“Shifts in the dungeon? You think that’s all you’ll get for what
you’ve done. There’s no way he’ll let you walk away without any blood
spilled. You realize that right?” He runs his hands through his hair, pulling
at the disheveled spikes. “Your weakness is going to get you killed, Peia.”
“Weakness?” I’m going to great lengths to keep my voice at a
reasonable volume.
“You think I don’t know why all your marks are so different?
Why they’re all so unique. You invest too much in your slays.” Alek must
really be slouching, our noses almost grazing with each word.
“Why does it matter what the stains look like as long as the job
gets done?” I’m yelling now, unable to control my volume any longer.
 “You care too much. A true Dire…”
“I am not a Dire,” I hiss, my voice oozing with venom, “nor do I
ever want to be. I refuse to be like Bastien. Like you.”
As soon as the last word passes my lips, I realize I’ve gone too
far.
It’s one thing to be pissed and arguing with Alek, it’s another
thing entirely to suggest he’s anything like Bastien.
The hurt is transparent as my words hit their mark. His lips twitch
irately, eager to respond, but he says nothing, instead returning to his true
height, quickly disappearing through the chamber doors without so much as
look my direction.
Watching Alek walk away, knowing I’m to blame for his anguish,
is torture. He’s my best friend, my Alala, and it kills me to see him suffer,
especially by my hands, but I can’t find the will to go after him. To
apologize. Whether it be from pride or my own anger, I hold my ground and
let him walk away.
Trailing after him, careful to keep a safe distance behind, I notice
my CO’s nowhere to be found. Ignoring the pang of disappointment, I
approach Spyridon for my training assignment. After a few snide remarks
and uncomfortable leering, he confiscates my blades and assigns me hand
to hand sparring with an unfamiliar soldier from Bezarus. She’s petite, only
a few inches taller than me, but she’s fierce, a tiny golden-haired figure with
a savagery that could rival any Dire. She offers no greeting or introduction,
it clear from the start that this isn’t just any training exercise for her. The
sheer bloodthirstiness radiating off her could chill even the bravest among
us.
After a few rounds steeped with obvious attempts on my life,
she’s summoned elsewhere, a new soldier taking up her mantel. His ruffled
hair and cocky grin are a welcome sight.
“Now this is a surprise,” I muse, “shouldn’t you be off
somewhere getting your ass beat by that delightful brother of yours?” He
doesn’t balk when I approach him as I would’ve expected, stepping forward
to meet me halfway.
“He’s in a meeting. Besides, it looked like you could use a break,”
Nicias comments.
“I’m glad I ran into, I wanted to ask you about last…”
“Peia.” The summons comes from behind, not a yell exactly, but a
tone not to be ignored.
Twisting away from Nis, one look at Roman confirms my
suspicions about his mood. This expression is different from the peeved
looks he usually throws my way. There’s a cold rigidness to him. Truthfully,
I’ve never seen him look so angry.
“What’s wrong?” The panicked words tumble from my mouth. “Is
Iren…”
“She’s fine,” he says, softening slightly. “The Wolf Run’s
concluded. All the hunters have already returned.” I don’t follow at first.
Annoyed, he adds, “Jakobian’s back.”
Shit.
While I come to terms with the danger of those two words, he
continues. “You’ve been summoned to discuss your conduct,” he spits the
last word like it’s toxic, “at the Playground.”
“How the hell did he hear about that so quickly if he just got
back?” Nicias interjects.
“Bastien would be my guess. He was probably waiting by the
gates like the little bitch he is.” I almost commend Roman on the amusing
insult. “He’s requested her presence in the Hollow of Assemblage. While
the damn council is in session no less.”
“This isn’t a fucking council matter. It was a just a Playground
brawl.” The two continue their profanity infused discussion while I retrieve
my blades. I knew going into that arena there’d be repercussions. I
anticipated some sort of punishment for what I’d done, but I didn’t expect it
so soon. I thought I’d have more time free of Jakobian
“You, ok?” Nicias asks ending my internal rambling.
“Yeah. Lead the way,” I direct at Roman.
Shadowing my CO, I’m surprised to find Nicias tagging along.
The boys lead us back to the grand foyer, up the right stairwell to the fifth-
floor landing. I follow them through the fifth-floor labyrinth, the journey
culminating at the mouth of an iron clad gate. The metal swings inward, the
inlet opening into a small antechamber. The room is barren, the floor
transitioning into stairs at the midpoint, the descend leading to a set of
double brass doors.
“Wait here.” Roman disappears through the portal below.
I jump, startled by the hand on my shoulder. I’d been so
engrossed with fears of Iren somehow being affected by this, that I’d
forgotten all about the Alpha’s heir in my company.
“Relax, Peia. It’ll be fine.” His encouraging smile falls flat,
divulging his own apprehensions. I take a seat on the first step to wait out
Roman’s return.
“They’re ready for you.”
Shoulders drawn back, I follow the Grey Commander down the
remaining steps, through the threshold of the Hollow. The circular chamber
is small, intimate in a way that suggests not many people are allowed entry.
Directly across from the entryway sits a semicircular table where the four
Beta’s, their Alpha, and Silas are seated. Standing to the right of the table is
my favorite Dire sporting his customary sneer. There’s another male present
I don’t notice at first. A figure near the entrance, arms crossed, leaning up
against the side wall.
Alek.
I take in each adversary cautiously, my eyes settling on Jakobian.
The usual bronze of his skin is a shade darker, his facial hair thicker than
his typical stubble. His trained gaze is unreadable. My palms begin to
slicken as the seconds tick away. Jakobian is the first to speak.
“It seems congratulations are in order. I’ve been told you’re
already well acquainted with the finest entertainment the capitol has to
offer. Tell me, how did you enjoy your time at the Playground?”
For whatever reason, he’s toying with me. Clearly, he knows what
happened in that fight and yet he’s being purposely
evasive.
“It was fine.” My clipped answer has Roman tensing, his
knuckles curling into fist at his sides.
“Just fine? I’m sure Scabius would describe it differently
considering his status as Dire has been formally terminated. A notice of
dismissal has already been issued.” A dramatic pause. That trademark
amused pull of his lips. “We’re merely waiting on his chosen method of
eradication.”
Hearing this news, I risk at glance at Bastien.
If looks could kill I’d already be headed down the River Styx.
Bastien might be a coldblooded bastard, but in the years since
I’ve known him, he and Scabs have been thick as blood. And now I’m the
reason for his dismissal, essentially signing his death warrant that day in the
Playground.
 “Some have argued you should receive punishment as well but
Kane here,” he says, gripping his brother’s shoulder, “has made it clear you
haven’t broken any protocols.”
Even though this should reassure me, his words seem to have the
opposite effect. The low commotion at the door behind me does nothing to
mollify my qualms.
“You’re dismissed.” That amused smile turning malicious.
“That’s it?”
“Of course. We have other matters to attend too. Send them in,”
he barks out to no one in particular.
My entire body tenses as the door creaks open, my muscles gearing
up for battle. Shifting to face the newest occupants, my heart stops. Of all
the scenarios I was expecting to play out in this chamber, this by far is the
worst.
Mathais, the child from the Playground, is lead into the room
alongside a frail young woman with long chestnut tresses. Unable to
contain it, my fury erupts into a low growl as I reach toward both blades.
The movement has me wincing, the pain a reminder of what’s a stake.
“What the fuck is this?” I snarl.
“Ah Peia, you decided to linger. How rebellious of you. Stand off to
the side would you, we have a penalty to impart.” Jakobian’s self-righteous
tone is enraging. I consider slitting his throat.
“Penalty for what?” I ask instead, stepping between the boy and the
table, my blades held out in front of me.
“See, this is what I was talking about,” explodes Beta Romulus.
“This is the type of insolence that should not be tolerated by the Pack.”
“Hush Romulus, no blood has been shed. My Ker here is just a
passionate individual. She can’t be faulted for her violent tendencies,”
Jakobian adds with a wink my direction. “Let’s carry on.”
Ignoring my outburst, Alpha Kaneous begins addressing the child
and his mother. “It has been brought to the council’s attention that the child
disrupted a commenced match in the Playground, forfeiting a pair’s victory.
Do you deny this?” he asks with an almost regretful look in the Mathais’
direction.
“You can’t be serious,” I explode when the tears begin showery
from the child’s eyes.
“That’s enough out of you,” Bastien barks unsheathing his own
blade. “One more peep and I’ll cut out your tongue.”
“Don’t embarrass yourself. Every person in this room knows you
can’t beat me with a partner, let alone on your own.”
His already pissed of face contorts in rage, my true intention behind
the remark. I’m hoping a full out brawl between the two of us could deflect
some of the attention off Mathais.
“Silence! Or the both of you shall be removed,” Kane orders,
though he doesn’t seem particularly keen on interrogating a child. “Now,
the child will answer.”
The room stills, the seconds stretching on, while Mathais struggles
for words. I try to get my companions’ attention, implore one of them to
intervene, but they seem too transfixed on the child to notice. Silas’s eyes
sparkle with demented amusement. Alek won’t even be bothered to meet
my eye.
Dicks.
“I’m sorry,” Mathais croaks, letting the tears fall as they may, the
sight cleaving my heart in two.
“He didn’t know any better. Please, he’s just a child. A foolish,
foolish child,” his mother pleads, her voice breaking on the last word.
“Foolishness is no excuse for his contravention. Age holds no
standing here. The child must be punished in accordance with Pack Law,”
replies Beta Ophira.
The bitch hasn’t spoken once since I entered the chamber, and this
is what she decides to waste her breath on.
“Agreed,” mutters Beta Evander.
“So be it,” Kane states after a short pause. “For the offence of
disrupting a sanctioned Playground match, a minimum penalty of twenty-
five lashes shall be dealt.”
“You can’t be fucking serious,” I repeat.
“Peia,” Roman warns, but I pay him no mind.
The boy’s mother’s gentle weeping is soon replaced by high pitch
wails, but I ignore her as well, instead focusing on a way out of this mess.
The amount of damage a single lash could inflict on a child Mathais size
could be detrimental, not to mention the added factor of his
malnourishment. But all twenty-five? That would undoubtedly kill him.
“Enough Ker,” Jakobian purrs. “Sentence has been allotted. The
lashes must be dealt.”
 My mind jumps from scenario to scenario. Mass murdering the
entire chamber, an elaborate escape plunging from the window. Frustration
claws away at me as each situation becomes more and more improbable. A
firm voice draws my attention back to the present, thwarting any ill-advised
plan I might’ve settled on.
“Peia, enough,” Roman states, his voice as hard and unfeeling as
the stone beneath our feet. “The sentence has been avowed. Twenty-five
lashes must be dealt for the offense.”
His eyes latch mine, sucking away at my soul like the leeches in
the foul ponds of Krua. Unflinching he stares, his gaze imploring me to
grasp the gravity of what he’s said. Going over his statement word for word,
I search for a lifeline, for a salvation of any kind. There’s no way my CO
would stand for something as unjust as this. I almost laugh when the
understanding finally dawns on me.
It’s in this moment, this very second, that I realize Roman may
know me better than I know myself.
“Fine,” I state deadpan, my voice loud and more assured than it’s
been since entering this wretched room. I silently return my blades to their
sheath. “I’ll take the lashes.”
Roman face remains unreadable to the outside world, but I notice
the relief, the way his shoulders relax ever so slightly. Turning to Jakobian,
I’m surprised to find that arrogant grin still plastered on his face. He, too,
having expected this.
Naturally, it’s Bastien who decides to break the silence. “That
wasn’t the sentence. And as much as I’d love to watch your flesh slashed to
shreds, I’d much rather witness the look on your face as the child takes the
lash.”
“The sentence allotted was twenty-five lashes. No one specified it
was the child who had to receive them,” I clarify. Scrutinizing the
statements made these past few minutes, I affirm my allegation. Even Alpha
Kaneous failed to stipulate who must bear the lashing. It’s a long shot. The
smallest of technicalities that could prove my deliverance.
“Treacherous wraith. Twisting words to her own devices,” spits
Romulus.
“Wraith or not, the Ker isn’t mistaken,” Jakobian states spryly.
The entire room stills, each soul listening keenly for word from the
Alpha. Even Mathais and his mother seem to have undergone petrifaction.
My mind goes hazy until I realize I’ve stopped breathing. Commanding
long pulls of air in through my nose, I find myself leaning towards the
table, awaiting Kane’s final verdict.
Without a defeated huff, he declares, “Dire Madaeus will take the
lashing.” Cold eyes meet mine. “Prepare the post immediately. I want to get
this shit over with.”

OceanofPDF.com
 CHAPTER 26
“Take her,” Kane orders to someone at the back of the room. His tone is
harsh, but I’d argue it was shaded in regret.
Shocked by turn of events, I don’t react as two guards grip me
securely by the arms, ushering me out of the room. I don’t resist. This is
what I was hoping for after all. A way out for Mathais.
Upon exiting, we pass another body I didn’t hear enter. The
familiar face fixes on me, Galen’s usual scowl missing, a novel expression
having taken up the space. I don’t pay that much mind either as I’m lead
from the room.
No one follows.
Even though that’s what I was expecting, I can’t ignore the twinge
of hurt.
As I’m led farther away by my entourage, my mind latches on to
the sentence that awaits. Now don’t get me wrong, I’ve been whipped prior,
by my father no less. Most were for minor violations against my brother’s,
but I’ve taken them for harsher offenses as well. The only difference is
those times I knew my father would never harm me beyond repair, never
push me past my breaking point. I always knew my father would never kill.
But as I march toward my impending lashing, I don’t feel that same
reassurance.
These are monsters, beasts of Lyca, who don’t give a damn about
beating me beyond all recognition. I’m sure whoever they deem to
administer my punishment won’t be concerned with keeping my alive. My
thoughts fly to my sister, then directly to Eon. The knowledge that I may
have just failed them yet again is crippling as I’m lead down each
unfamiliar corridor.
I’m not sure how much time has passed or how far we’ve traveled
when my guards bring me to a halt inside a dimly lit hall, the air stale and
forgotten. We wait outside a shabby looking door, the light creeping under
the frame, splintering through the cracked the wood. As the minutes tick on,
the noise beyond the door grows from a dull hum to a loud thunder. I have
an idea where we must be, but my escorts offer no explanations. My
imagination runs rampant until the rap comes, beckoning our entry.
Stepping through the threshold, I’m greeted by the same savage
crowd from my last encounter in the Crypt. Instead of entering from the
main entrance, we’ve stumbled through the same side door as the man I
executed. It’s clear this must be the prisoner entrance for offenders of the
Pack. As I’m led further onto the dais, I notice the spot where I performed
my execution on the first day is no longer empty. The space now hosting an
old, rust-stained whipping post. My stomach churns as I envision the
carnage inflicted at the foot of that structure.
Forcefully guided forward, I don’t resist as my guards confiscate
my sheath and begin untying the strings of my uniform. The deathly
stagnant air of the chamber cools my exposed flesh as the fabric is retched
away leaving me clothed from the waist up in nothing but my leather
undergarment, a thin piece of fabric that binds in that back barely covering
the mound of each breast. Again, I don’t struggle as they attach each arm to
either side of the post, securely fastening them beneath the old, rusted metal
shackles. They’ve arranged the bindings so tightly, my wrists immediately
begin stinging from the pressure.
With my exposed back facing the audience below, I’m left with
no choice but to watch as each member of the high council slowly takes
their seat. For once, Jakobian’s gaze is unreadable, his usual swagger
diminished to the point of nonexistence. As the familiar figure strides in on
the heels of his Beta, Roman’s gaze can’t seem to leave mine as he takes his
seat at the table, the look of defeat unmistakable. Apart from a quick glance
towards Nicias, I fixate on Roman, latching onto the calming sight as I
ready myself for the inevitable. I ignore every other despicable soul at the
table until the center seat is occupied, the Alpha taking his rightful place.
“A grievance has occurred that must be swiftly addressed,” Kane
bellows across the chamber. “The lash has been dealt. Twenty-five in sum
to be taken at once. Step forward,” he beckons to my unknown tormentor.
“Begin.”
Eyeing the individual Kane’s addressing, my legs buckle beneath
me as the soldier delivering my sentence comes into view. I expected
Bastien’s filthy smile to greet while I take my penalty. I was prepared to
endure such a perversion, but the person yielding the whip is the very last
person I would’ve ever expected. The set of his jaw and shadowed gaze as
he white knuckles the grip of the whip is the most unnerving sight I’ve ever
beheld. My gaze widens as Alek dips the whip into the bucket, ensuring my
punishment will be as excruciating as possible.
Panic stricken, my breathing comes out as gasps as I find
Roman’s eyes once more. I don’t dare look anywhere else as I feel the air
shift behind me, sense my Alala taking his place to commence. My body
tenses, every muscle straining to rip free, dreading what’s to come. I catch
the slightest flinch in my CO’s stoic demeanor a breath before leather meets
flesh.
The crack of the whip is child’s play compared to the pain
permeating from the small of my back out through the rest of my being. I
barely manage to stifle my scream, the sound coming out a wild grunt, as
the agony threatens to overtake me. The audience at my back is grumbling,
urging for the violence to continue. They’re enthralled by the scene,
overjoyed that the infamous Ker has been rightfully put in her place.
“You will count,” Silas croons, a sadistic grin dominating the
planes of his face. I imagine he’s harboring something stiff beneath his
trousers based on the way he’s adjusting himself.
“One,” I splutter, choking on the word. I’m not prepared as the
second-strike lands, a low whimper escaping as a testament to my anguish.
“Two,” I croak, this time without cue. I immediately bite down on my lower
lip, the teeth breaking skin, in attempt to thwart any more tell-tale sounds of
my pain.
My eyes don’t leave Roman for the remainder of my sentence,
each lash more agonizing than the last, as the tally adds up. His face
remains impassive, but I recognize my own agony reflected in that beautiful
olive hue.
He’s enjoying this as much as I am.
By the time fourteen passes my lips, it comes out just shy a
whisper. Chancing a glance at Nicias, I notice he isn’t watching anymore,
his attention focused intently on the section of table directly in front of him.
I’m internally pleading for rest once the final stretch comes into
few, my lower lip shredded to pieces, though the blood from the wounds is
dwarfed by the amount I feel pooling at my back. I know the remaining five
lashes won’t kill me, but it offers little comfort. The only thing keeping me
from shattering completely is the thought of cowering before monsters, the
shame of shedding a single tear. Finding my grit, steeling my fortitude, I
count down the last remaining lashes.
“Twenty-four,” I mumble, the word indiscernible to all except
myself. My body tenses one final time as the last strike falls. “Twenty-five.”
Spit flies from my mouth along with the number.
The seated council remains still, the only movement steaming
from the rise-fall of each of their chests. The roar of the crowd at my back
has simmered down. I try to steady my breathing, but the exhales remain
haggard, pressing out of me in uneven puffs. I’m gasping, my mind
muddled from the agony. I notice Jakobian’s gloating smile is still missing,
leaving an uncharacteristically vacant expression. With a slight node from
the Alpha, my two guards from earlier come barreling forward, unlocking
the shackles at my wrist. I almost collapse as the locks release, barely
managing to grasp the pole for support. I struggle to regain my footing, my
boots sliding through the slick crimson puddle pooling around the bottom of
the post.
“The penalty’s been settled. You are dismissed,” Kane declares,
voice lower than I’ve ever witnessed.
Taking my first step forward, I become aware of the freely
flowing leather undergarment billowing with my movements. Damning any
semblance of modesty, I don’t give my barely concealed chest a second
thought as I trudge over to the prisoner’s entrance. Without a single glance
at my Alala, I place one foot in front of the other. Every movement hurts,
even the tiniest sending a torrent of agony to each corner of my body. As
the pain begins to summit, I fear I won’t be able to make it across to the exit
without crumpling.
Kane resumes addressing the crowd. The throng of soldiers
responds enthusiastically to something their Alpha said, but I’m not in the
right mind for comprehending whatever message is being conveyed. My
wounds continue leaking as I slowly make my way.
My feet are leaden as the distance toward my escape seems to
span on for miles. I keep my lips sealed the remainder of the way until I
clear a safe distance through the doorway. The other side is empty as I
expected, leaving me in solitude with my anguish. Shutting the old door
behind me, I crumple to the floor in a heap of blood and salt.
I keep any noise to a minimum, but I let the tears flow as they
may.
I’m not sure how long I sit like this. It feels like minutes, but my
gage of time seems to be off. A slow creak warns me of someone’s
presence, but I’m too weak to care.
Let the bastards’ finish me off.
“Come now, put your arm around my shoulder,” urges a gruff
timbre. “Can you stand?”
For reasons unknown, the thought of Galen seeing me in such
way fills me with utter disgrace. Straining to push up, I notice he’s crouched
on the floor beside me. When it becomes clear I’m not able to move
effectively on my own, he delicately takes my uninjured arm, resting it
gently over his shoulder. He grunts as he hauls me to my feet, but I don’t
protest. I know I’m a sitting duck if I just sit here.
“I need you to walk with me, ok? I’d carry you, but I don’t want
to put any pressure on your back.”
With a nod of agreement, I take my first steps forward, each boot
adding to the ruby trail we’ve left behind. Moving through the hallway feels
like treading in water, the muscles of my body heavy and indignant. I’m a
breath away from tapping out, when a large figure comes racing down the
hall.
“Peia,” says Milos, his voice as weak as I feel. Zale is right on his
heels.
“Grab her other arm. Gently!” Galen scolds. As soon as the
pressure is off my feet, I begin to surrender to the darkness, now only
partially listening to the conversation surrounding me.
“Isn’t the infirmary on this floor?” Milos.
“We’re going to the sixth. Healer will meet us there.”
“There’s no way she’ll-” Zale.
“She’s too easy a target in the infirmary,” Galen states icily. “We
take her there, she’ll be dead before dawn.”
After those heartening words, I nod in and out of consciousness
until a cool, smooth surface presses into my cheek, bolstering me to the
realm of the present.
“Holy shit, that’s a lot of blood.” That would be Nicias, helpful as
ever. I try to pry my eyes open, but the efforts too great.
 “Where is she?” At these harsh words I find the will, forcing the
lids open.
I take in the room around me, desperately searching for the source
of the voice. I notice I’m lying flat on a large wood slab, the table’s contents
now lying in complete disarray on the floor beside it. The chamber is huge,
larger and more well-furnished than any I’ve seen in the capitol. I try to get
a better look around but even the thought of lifting my head results in
agony.
Gods, what I wouldn’t give to be unconscious.
“Where is that fucking healer!” Roman bellows as he kneels
beside the desk, his head level with mine. The hue of his eyes takes me
back to the Loutra, to our time in the rain.
“How’s the masterpiece?” The words coming out raspy and
almost inaudible. I know Roman will get the jest. He, too, knows how much
pride the shamazine takes in his work.
“Stop talking, Peia,” he orders softly. “The blood spurts faster
with each word.”
“Mathais?” I breathe, once again ignoring a direct order from my
CO.
“Safe at home with his mother,” he answers, lightly placing his
hand on the desk, his fingers tenderly stroking my outer wrist. The touch is
soothing, a respite for me to focus on while the pain ebbs away at my
sanity. I shut my eyes again, silently begging Roman to continue.
I must doze off because soon I’m awoken by screaming, shrill
terrible cries that haunt me until I realize their coming from my own throat.
“Hold her still,” urges a female voice I can’t quite place. “I can’t
work on her with her limbs flailing about.”
Roman slowly rises to his feet taking the place at the head of the
desk. Grabbing my wrists, he holds them down to the wooden surface. I feel
the same sensation happening with my ankles, but I don’t have the energy
to see who’s back there.
“She’s lucky she had so little clothing on. The fabric would’ve
been impossible to remove. Now, bite down on this,” she says, shoving a
rolled-up piece of leather between my lips. “And heed me now girl, if the
darkness comes to claim you, I urge you to go. Otherwise, you’re in for a
rough night.”
Biting down hard, I find Roman staring down at me. I don’t think
I’ve ever seen him look so miserable, so wrecked. His usual tan skin is now
blanched, pallid. The corners of his lips are pulled down, a permanent
crease taken root between his eyes. A perfect example of a broken man.
I vaguely hear the words “I’m sorry” leave his lips before the pain
engulfs me, drowning me in tides of agony. I scream out, this time allowing
the wails of my grief to fill the chamber.
Fuck this.
Whatever the witch behind me is up to sure as hell doesn’t feel like
healing. Probably rubbing salt in the wounds by the feel of it, but I fight the
pull of unconsciousness out of fear of being hurled away to an early grave.
When the pain fortifies to the point of intolerable, I let go
completely. My mind scuttles towards thoughts of my sister right before
submitting to the void.
-------------------------------------
I rouse a few times before waking fully, the pain at my back having
diminished during my slumber. It takes a moment for my eyes to adjust to
the light pouring in from the two windows. Based on the slick sweat coating
my skin, I determine it must be early afternoon. Of what day, I haven’t a
clue. The stiffness of my limbs suggests it could have been hours or even a
few days since the lashing. Straining to lift myself off the large bed I was
relocated to during my stupor, my arms give out, plopping me back down
onto the soft white fabric.
“Healer says you aren’t to move,” Galen mutters. He’s seated at a
chair by the chamber door eyeing me with interest. I notice Nicias asleep on
a large kline across from the bed, his arm tucked under him in leu of a
pillow. My CO is fast asleep on the floor beside me, back propped against
the wall, his hair close enough to run my fingers through. Ignoring the
impulse, I turn my attention back to Galen.
“How long was I out.” Hearing my pathetic croak, Galen walks
over to a large desk in the corner of the room, the fresh stains mark it as my
original resting place. Grabbing a carafe, he quickly fills one of the goblets
beside it, walking it over.
“A day and a half,” he answers, bringing the goblet to my lips. The
cool water is bliss as it sloshes down my throat, triggering a moan of
ecstasy.
“How bad is it?” I ask once I’ve drained the goblet thrice over.
Returning to his seat by the door, he gives me a hard stare. After a
long sigh he utters, “I’ve seen worse.”
“That was convincing.”
“It’s not for the faint of heart, but it won’t be killing you.”
“Much to your disappointment, I’m sure.” My attempt at a smile is
thwarted when the pain begins to surge.
“Kyra left something for the pain, an ointment.” Stepping over
Roman, Galen seizes a small tin from the nightstand. Leaning forward he
whispers, “It’ll burn at first, but the soothing will come shortly after.
Ready?”
After a slight nod, he dips his fingers into the clear balm, gently
messaging it into the wounds at my back. “Son of a bitch,” I hiss trying to
keep my voice down. After a minute or so, the burning evolves into a
soothing chill that seeps into the slices on my flesh, alleviating some of the
discomfort. “How long have they been asleep?”
“A couple of hours on and off. Both refused to leave the room.” His
chair wines in protest as he returns to his seat. His harsh expression softens
as he turns his gaze to Nis. “Your Alala came by to check on you yesterday,
but Roman wouldn’t allow him entry. Threatened to carve him into pieces if
he came back. Zale escorted him to his room.”
“I’d carve him up myself.” Galen doesn’t respond as he stares,
pensive. Irked, I snap, “What?”
“He did you a favor, you know. Alektus. After you left to the Crypt,
Roman proposed he should take the lashing in your place since he’s your
Commanding Officer, but of course Jakobian wasn’t having it. When the
council began deliberating who would administer your sentence the vile one
volunteered. Practically begged for the opportunity. Most were in favor,
aside from Jakobian and Kane, but then Alektus stepped up. Argued since
he was your Alala, it was his responsibility. The agreement was
unanimous.”
“How gallant of him, offering up his services. My godsdamn hero,”
I spit.
“Your back is merely a flesh wound compared to what it could’ve
been had Bastien been allowed free reign over your lashing. He would’ve
ripped the flesh from bone. Would’ve left you a gory heap at the foot of that
post.” Clear I won’t be discussing Alek any longer, he adds, “Look, the
point I’m trying to make is- you have more allies than you think. Don’t
forget that. It’s those allies that’ll keep you alive when your sparkling
personality fails.” His words illicit an awkward cackle that sears my back.
“That was attractive,” he mumbles.
“As is the look of my back, I’m sure.”
“You should rest.” His tone is authoritative but soft, a sharp
contrast to the usual surly sentinel. The one eyeing me constantly with
barely concealed contempt.
Although the idea of slipping back to sleep concerns me, I can
sense my body’s need for rest. Shutting my eyes, my mind drifts back to
Galen’s opinion about Alek. I know he’s right. I came to the same
conclusion myself when I saw that it was Alek administering my
punishment. I knew there was some reasoning behind it. Even still, the
image of him standing at my back, his grasp firm around the grip of the
whip makes me sick, physically nauseous at the realization it was his own
hand that tore me to shreds.
My body shutters as images of my beautiful Alala beating me to
death plague my mind, warping my thoughts, commandeering my
nightmares.

OceanofPDF.com
 CHAPTER 27
By the time I wake a few hours later, night has fallen once again, the
moonlight streaming through the open window, illuminating Roman’s form
as he sits at the sill. Forcing myself into a sitting position, ignoring the
death glares my CO shoots my way, I find that the pain at my back has
diminished further.
“You really should lay back down,” Roman urges, taking a seat
beside me on the bed, careful to keep his distance.
“I feel like I’ve been out for a year, Roman. I can’t take anymore
rest. The pain isn’t as bad as I’d imagined anyway.”
Averting his gaze, he hands me a large tunic, his subtle hint at the
fact that I’m completely uncovered apart from my undergarments. It seems
at one point during my slumber, someone thought it a clever idea to remove
my boots and pants. Accepting the thin fabric, I gently pull it over my head,
careful around the sensitive area of my back.
“Kyra said your backs healing up nicely, faster than she’s ever seen
prior.”
“C’mon, Roman. That shouldn’t surprise you. We both know I’m
exceptional in all things.”
“That you are.” His subdued tone warns me to leave him be, not to
push the issue with an ill-conceived joke.
“So, all it takes is a good lashing to get a new lavish chamber? Had
I known I would’ve gotten into mischief ages ago.”
With a scowl he mutters, “It’s Nicias’s chamber. We were
desperate, and it was the closest to the infirmary. I can escort you back to
your tower whenever you’re ready.” Something about his growl and pissed
off expression tells me he’s more than a little eager to change locales.
“Hmm, I don’t know that I am,” I croon, snatching up one of the
fluffy pillows sitting beside to me. Bringing the pillow up to my nose, I
inhale deeply. “Gods this bed smells good. I think I’ll stay here for the
remainder of the Trek. If it’s ok with Nissy, of course.”
Glowering, he slowly rises from the bed. Overawing as he may be,
I never pass up an opportunity to goad him. Now towering over me like the
behemoth he is, I have the gall to smile up at him. “You’re not staying
another night in here even if I have to forcibly carry you out myself,” he
states, a menacing demand, but even I catch the tic at the corner of his
mouth.
“You wouldn’t dare. Not with my poor recovering back as marred
as it is.”
Crouching forward, his arms pressing down on either side of my
thighs, enclosing me in a cage of lean, inked muscle, he murmurs, “I’d be
inconceivably gentle, Hypatia.”
I shudder as my given name passes his lips, the word fondling its
way along my body, teasingly stroking the space between my thighs. You’d
think a lashing would’ve eased my carnal urges, but no such luck. They’re
insatiable as ever. As if reading my thoughts his gaze turns positively feral,
traveling its way down to my exposed thighs.
Annoying bastard.
He knew exactly what he was doing with his ‘gentle’ comment. I’m
tempted to shed the tunic in a corner somewhere, but a firm tone hinders my
ploy.
“Your back.”
“I wouldn’t be opposed to taking the top,” I whisper. The
responding bestial growl resonating deep within his throat, elicits a small,
satisfied smirk.
“Enough.” The authoritative tone of Krua’s Grey Commander
delivering a direct order has me scratching for release. Just as I’m about to
pounce, an inconvenient rap at the door interrupts my indecent intentions.
“Ah, I see the Erinyes has arisen at last,” Zale observes as he
follows Galen and Nicias inside, the latter handing me a plate overflowing
with grilled tuna, roasted vegetables, and pieces of flatbread.
“If that’s a jab at my appearance, I’d argue being unconscious for
the past two days is a fair defense,” I state around a mouthful of the tender
fish.
“It’s not so much your appearance as it is your insatiable need for
violence.” Leaning against the far wall I detect the hint of a grin. I notice
Roman give his friend an amused headshake.
“Point taken.”
“How are you feeling? We didn’t mean to interrupt,” Nicias adds,
his tone innocent and embarrassed. “Neoma sent you these.” Handing me a
small stack of books, I notice she sent up the tome on ancient dialects I was
combing through a few days ago, along with two volumes on the edibility
of florae. “She thought you might be able to find a plant to help with the
pain. Said she searched herself but came up empty.”
“Thank you. I was just getting ready to go. Anyone know where my
pants ended up?” Slowly climbing off the bed, I take my first step in two
days. The rigidity of my legs has me worrying I’ll never run again, but the
fact that I haven’t fallen over is reassuring.
The atmosphere in the room has me smirking, each male rigid,
arms ready do brace my fall.
“Kyla cut them off to make you more comfortable, but maybe you
should rest a little longer,” the heir suggests anxiously.
“Thanks, but I think I could really use the walk. I’m getting antsy
being cooped up here. No pants it is,” I mutter when I get a look at the cut-
up leather that at one point made up my uniform. Lacing up my boots, I
take a few staggered steps toward the doorway. The movements are
sluggish, but I don’t rest until I make it out into the hallway. “Thanks for
letting me indulge in the comforts of your bed these past couple of days.”
Placing a gentle peck against my forehead he mumbles against my
skin, “You’re welcome to my chamber anytime, Peia.”
Releasing me, he takes a small step backward. His sheepish smile
reminds me of a past Eon, warm and kind. “Careful, Nis. I might just take
you up on that.”
Roman remains at my side the entire walk, patiently
accommodating my slowed pace. The journeys arduous, but I manage
without any assistance. I’m grateful he doesn’t comment on the fact that I
proceeded straight to his chamber as opposed to my own, his smug
expression telling me he’d like too.
Once I’ve made it fully into the chamber, I collapse atop the bed,
undignified plop and all. “Help me with this, will you?” I gesture towards
my tunic. “The fabric’s killing my back.”
He regards me suspiciously, but he doesn’t refuse my request. He
chivalrously turns away as I expose my bare chest. After discarding the
tunic, I lie flat on my stomach, savoring the familiar feel of the bed. I hadn’t
realized how much I’d missed it until I was back here again.
Damning courtesy to the depths of Tartarus, I can’t help but stare as
Roman removes his own tunic. Golden skin peeks out from behind his
monstrous ink, pulled taunt over the panes of his chest, the ridges of his abs.
Scars mar the tattoos in most areas, but that only seems to make him more
appealing. The large muscles of his arms flex as he begins pulling the
covers down on his side.
“Keep your claws to yourself, Peia,” Roman warns, a finger
pointed my direction. With an amused grin, I close my eyes, slowly easing
my way towards a much-welcomed slumber.
“Malicious tease,” I muse. The accompanying laugh rumbles
through my chest as I relish the warmth seeping from the body beside me.
“No more close calls, Peia. I beg of you.” His lips lightly brush the surface
of my shoulder. “I couldn’t survive it.” I barely make out those last words
before I succumb to the shadow realm.

OceanofPDF.com
 CHAPTER 28
The next two days fly by as I spend my time immersed in the library tomes.
Though Kyla said my back was healing at an abnormally rapid rate, Roman
still insisted I stay out of the training room. I decide it best not to press the
issue, though I was surprised to find Jakobian had agreed to it. I guess with
the Wild Masque being postponed until the end of the week due to
“pressing capitol matters,” he’s been preoccupied with more prominent
issues than whether his Ker is mastering her archery. Even though the
Masque postponement involves a longer stint away from Iren than I first
anticipated, I’m thankful for the extra time.
With the Playground incident and my subsequent punishment, I
haven’t been able to cement my assassination plot or translate Eon’s
message. Despite my desperation to venture out into the agora to see my
brother again, I’d hate to disappoint him by returning empty handed.
Determined to translate that damn script, I focus my attention there while
letting my Alpha problem simmer on the side.
After countless hours of scouring, volume upon volume filled with
monotonous information, my eyes are practically bleeding by the time I
manage to partially crack the language, deciphering at least a section of the
message. If I’m correct, the script reads something along the lines of:
Mother of Mountains, She will raise us.
A bit cryptic.
Who this Mother is, I still haven’t the slightest idea, but the ‘She
will raise us’ portion seems fairly transparent. If this so-called Mother is
vowing to rise against the Pack, I can see the appeal someone like that
might have in the Forsaken Lands. Why the Omega’s might follow her.
By day three, elated by my discovery, I’m tempted to go running
straight for the agora. It’s been days since the lashing, but Nicias still seems
worried I might drop dead at any second, insisting on checking up on me
every couple of hours. If I just went off and disappeared in the capitol, he’d
probably have the entire Alpha guard searching for me. Roman isn’t much
better, but at least he keeps his lurking to minimum, only dropping by the
library during mealtimes to supply me with sustenance.
Shelving my discovery for the time being, I shift my attention back
to Kane. Since his return from the hunt, I have yet to catch him
accompanied by fewer than five sentinels. I’m estimating all those
“pressing capitol matters” are at fault for the increase in security, but it
doesn’t make a difference considering the number of stares thrown my way.
I can’t walk through a single hallway without whispers passed at my back
so, the possibility of slinking about around Kane’s chambers
inconspicuously is practically nonexistent. My best bet is to strike at a time
when the entire palace is otherwise preoccupied.
Like say a certain night of drink and debauchery.
The Wild Masque would offer the perfect cover to take out the
Alpha. Not only is every attendee hidden beneath a mask, but lower Dire
like me aren’t required to attend. Therefore, if I can get my hands on a
mask, find a sensible uniform to hide my ink, and set up a failsafe alibi, I
can complete the task by the end of the week. With only two days left until
the revelry, the window of opportunity to set my plans in motion is growing
slim. If I’m to get everything in order in time, I need to start finalizing the
details.
The day before the Masque, I manage to illicitly secure a long-
sleeved training top from the palace wardrobe. With only the mask left to
worry about, I decide a swift trip into the agora is essential, not to mention
the need to see my little brother again.
Creeping down the palace halls, slipping through the main
entrance, I’m halfway through the courtyard when my name rumbles across
the dirt. To my disappoint, I discover Nicias headed my way, his buoyant
strut oddly out of place.
“Peia,” he calls again as he draws nearer. “May I have a word?”
As inconvenient as the timing is, I must admit the thought of snubbing him
isn’t enticing. In the brief time that I’ve been here, I’ve come to regard him
as a friend and more importantly, an ally.
“Sure, what’s on your mind? Silas beating the crap out of you in
my absence?” Joke or not, my blood boils at the thought of that vile little
prick messing with his younger brother.
“No, nothing like that,” he answers with a laugh. “I was hoping to
speak to you about the Masque.”
Damn.
“What about it?” Even I can hear the apprehension in the words.
“I was hoping you’d accompany me to the Wild Masque tomorrow
night,” he answers enthusiastically, oblivious to my unease the way males
so often are.
Not only is he screwing up my murder plans, but he’s also
attempting to subject me to another awful Lycan festivity.
“I know the Masque probably isn’t at the top of your list, but I was
thinking,” he starts nervously, “maybe if we went together, it wouldn’t be
such a shit time.”
“And what about Galen?” The flush in his cheeks is almost
adorable.
“Wh-what about him? He isn’t my escort.” He answers so abruptly
I can’t help but chuckle.
“I only meant he isn’t my biggest fan.”
Giving me a boyish grin, he says, “He can tolerate you for one
evening.”
Thinking on it, maybe escorting Nicias will provide the perfect
alibi for me being at the Masque. And if he happens to sneak off with a
certain handsome, broody guard well, all the better. “I guess it’s settled
then.”
Drawing me into a tight embrace, his vows, “I’ll make certain it’s
an enjoyable evening. I’ll even place an embargo on all the desserts. ‘For
Peia’s consumption only,’ the notice will read.”
The sentiment’s heartwarming, the words finding their mark like
one of Alek’s impeccably aimed arrows.
“You better believe I’m going to hold you to that.” My voice
equally soft. After a quick embrace, I escape off towards the running trail,
leaving him to his thoughts.
As pleasant as Nicias’s company might be, I still have my murder
plan to contend with. Since time is running out, I don’t have the option of
postponing the deed any further. Tomorrow is the night, Nicias’s company
or not.
Assess and adjust. That’s what I must do.
 Only this time, the stakes are higher than they’ve ever been. For
this time, it isn’t about me or my survival.
It’s my sister’s future that’s at stake.

OceanofPDF.com
 CHAPTER 29
The morning of the Masque, I don’t dawdle. I skip my usual morning
routine of flirting with Roman while trading inappropriate sexual
innuendos, in favor of a clipped ‘see you at lunch,’ before rushing out the
door. Considering there’s still much to be finalized regarding the plan for
the evening, I dash towards my tower.
Nicias informed me over dinner last night that he already procured
me a mask and outfit for the Masque. With that portion of the evening taken
care of, all that’s left is the gritty details regarding the slay. I’ve gathered
from Neoma that the Masque is a night filled with drink, dance, and
mischief, lasting until the golden hours of the dawn. She explained that the
celebration begins at sunset, cresting with the Moonlight Howl that takes
place at midnight. The Howl she described as a symbolic ritual meant to
ensure good fortune for the seasons ahead, the pivotal moment of the
evening when each wolf in attendance gives thanks to Lycaon over the
consecrated garden grounds.
Based on her description of the ritual and the usual levels of
intoxication expected during the night, my best bet is to attack during the
Howl when all the attendees’ attention will be engrossed elsewhere. My
plan is to slip away from Nis long enough to deliver a perfectly placed
dagger to the Alpha’s heart. The timing must be perfect. Swift enough to
avoid suspicion.
In my chamber, I carefully unsheathe both khopesh for a
sharpening. Although it’s been a few days since I’ve held them in my grasp,
it feels as if no time has passed at all, the blades a mere extension of my
own limbs. My body trembles in remembrance of the last time they were
released that evening in the Hollow, the agony at my Alala’s hands.
I haven’t spoken to Alek since that night. If I’m being honest, I’ve
gone out of my way to avoid him since the lashing. Roman’s been helpful
on that front, not allowing Alek within twenty feet of me. I think my CO
was anticipating a fight over the issue, but I hadn’t any qualms.
Good, I thought, let the bastard suffer.
I know Alek was making the best of an impossible situation in
doing exactly what an Alala is supposed to. He’s the blade of my battles,
the blood of my wounds, and considering he’s the one to give me my swift
death, a lashing shouldn’t be that far off from his realm of duties. Though I
understand all this, I can’t help the overwhelming sense of betrayal I feel
whenever I think about that whip making contact with my flesh.
Not that it matters at the moment. I have more important concerns
than hashing things out.
Slipping the freshly sharpened blades back into their sheath, I
retrieve the slim dagger from beneath my wardrobe. The weapon is slim,
agile, and unequivocally brutal, with even the smallest nick causing
considerable damage. I sharpen the blade as well, polishing it until the
steel’s shine could challenge the loveliest jewel. It’s magnificent, a dagger
forged by the most capable hands. It was a gift from Alek after our Alala
ceremony, one that I hadn’t much use for in the past. My kills tend to
require larger, starker weaponry as opposed to the subtle nature of the
dagger. I’m not sure my reasoning behind packing it for the Trek, most
likely some sentimental nonsense that seems ridiculous now. It was given as
a token of death, gifted to the Ker of Krua.
It’s interesting that the first blood spilled by the dagger will be that
of the Alpha.
I return the blade to its hiding place, intent on retrieving it right
before the Masque. I’ll slip into my boot while I’m getting ready, ensuring
I’m the only being aware of its presence this evening. With only the pair of
clean, bloodless blades on my back during the Masque tonight, claiming
innocence for the assassination shouldn’t be too hard to sell. My reputation
for grisly, blood-soaked slays precedes me, securely cemented by the
execution in the Crypt and my performance at the Playground. My skills
were honed for gory deliverance, not a stealthy demise. I’m praying the
wolves of Lyca hold tight to that image during the celebration tonight.
Leaning back on my bed, I feel elated, as if a large burden has
finally been lifted from my shoulders. After tonight, not only will Iren be
free, I’ll also be able to offer Eon information concerning his message and
the cryptic Mother figure while hopefully one day reuniting the remaining
Madaeus siblings.
The thought of Iren and Eon together again, traipsing through the
foliage, laughter light on the breeze, soothes me.
Content with my plan for the evening, I abandon my chamber in
hopes of running into a certain emerald-eyed Grey Commander. Catching
him at the dining hall entrance, I barter with him for an afternoon run. My
stubbornness outweighing his own for once, I finally manage to convince
him after threatening to run on my own if need be.
“You’re impossible, you know that?” he complains, running a
hand along his stubbled jaw.
“I’ve been told.” I reign in the impulse to fondle his face myself.
“We’ll go right after dinner since trainings been cancelled for the
day.”
Agreeing to meet him by the trail later, I grab an apple from the
kitchen and scurry off towards the library. Though confident with my
translation, I can’t help but worry that maybe I’ve missed something vital
and with the afternoon free, I don’t see the harm in taking a second look.
The route to the library is nearly deserted, most of the palace
residents enjoying their day off, wasting away the hours until the
celebration. I don’t pass more than a few souls the entire way, all of whom
servants too preoccupied to pay me much notice. I’m worried Neoma might
not be in today on account of the Masque, but the slightly ajar door placates
me.
“Neoma,” I call once I’ve passed the threshold, “your favorite
hostile has returned.” During my numerous visits to her library, I haven’t
once stumbled upon someone other than Neoma. Aside from me, she
doesn’t seem to get too many visitors down here.
I have yet to make it completely down the stairs when I notice
Neoma’s favorite spot empty, not a single book or parchment in sight. The
light radiating from her office seems to be duller than usual, the door shut
tight.
“Hey Neoma,” I call knocking lightly on the wood.
“It’s open,” calls a disappointingly male voice.
“What are you up to in here Nis?” I ask upon entering. “I haven’t
seen you pick up a book once the entire time I’ve been here. Wasn’t even
sure you were literate.” He doesn’t laugh, the somber expression
unflinching. He’s chosen to remain standing, his eyes focused on a map of
Lyca hanging from an office wall. Something’s plaguing him, the cheerful
boy from a few days prior gone.
“My father fought hard for his title. Led legions of the hundreds
into battle. He addresses thousands daily but can’t manage more than a few
words my way.” The pain in his words has me drawing closer. “I’m sorry,”
he says as I take his hand, “I know how this must seem considering your…”
Considering my father’s dead. “I just had to tell you before tonight.”
Removing his hand, he turns away again. Running his fingers through his
hair, pulling at the auburn spikes, he continues. “There was another motive
behind asking for your hand this evening. A selfish one. You’re just so easy
to be around, and I feel comfortable when you’re near, I thought if he saw
us together it might…” Now he seems to be rambling, the words broken
into choppy sentences.
“Nicias, I know how fantastic I am. It’s not necessary of you to
inflate my ego this way.” I offer the joke as a moments reprieve. Forcing
him to turn and face me, I implore him to continue.
With a defeated sigh, he states, “Impress him.”
I can’t help but scoff.
Sighing, he continues. “I just mean, you’re not someone that’s
easily overlooked. And I’m tired of being overlooked.”
If only he realized how many people truly see him. The way
Galen is only tolerable when Nicias is around. The way the sullen sentry
lights up when he speaks. The way the Alpha only ever smiles when Nicias
is nearby.
But the pain I see in him now, the true anguish on his face, tugs at
my heart, the pull too strong for me to simply ignore. Wrapping my arms
around his middle, I mumble into his chest. “I’ve seen the way your father
looks at you, Nis. He adores you. Kane might seem distant and cold, but he
does notice.”
We stay that way for a while, my guilt racketing as I realize it
isn’t just an Alpha I’ll be killing tonight. It’s a father as well. An uncle. A
brother.
Fuck Jakobian.
Nicias is the one to break our embrace, planting a chaste kiss on
my head before excusing himself to attend to other matters. I’m not sure if
he believed me, but I hope the words helped.
I spend the next couple of hours studying new tomes, vying
desperately for the distraction, with similar results. I come to nearly the
identical translation yet, I can feel its imprecision in my bones. I know it’s
off somehow. I can sense there’s something amiss, but I can’t quite place it.
Riddled with frustration, I close the last tome and return it to its rightful
place.
Considering I worked through both lunch and dinner, I scramble
out of the library, eager to meet Roman for our scheduled rendezvous. I can
almost picture the impatient scowl that awaits me, the image slowing down
my tread, fueling the puckish side of me Roman knows all too well.
My sinister laugh is music to my ears as I desert my haven of
erudition.

OceanofPDF.com
 CHAPTER 30
Our run is more of a frivolous outing than an actual exercise, but it does
wonders to relieve my angst about the upcoming Masque. Upon our return,
Roman instructs me to head to my chamber to prepare for the evening,
explaining that Nicias had my mask sent there. I don’t argue, that being my
plan all along.
As I reach the lonesome corridor of my tower, I’m startled by the
sound of movement coming from behind the door. Damning myself for the
lack of steel, I ease open the door gingerly, preparing to go hand to hand if
need be. The chamber’s two young occupants are too busy bustling about to
notice my arrival, the one set of familiar hollow features putting me
somewhat at ease.
“We are here to help dress you for the Masque,” utters the young
girl I don’t recognize. “I am Signy, this is Clio.” Her companion, the young
girl who escorted me to this very chamber my first night in Tairheia, merely
nods silently. “Ser Jakobian sent this for you.” She motions towards the
bundle of clothing lying atop the bed.
“Which Jakobian?” I ask nervously.
“Ser Nicias of course.”
“Ah.” Holding the fabric out for inspection I scoff. “And where
the fuck the rest of it?”
The top was designed in a similar fashion to that of my
undergarments. The triangular portion of leather slightly larger, cupping
each breast, barely offering any concealment for the flesh beneath. Thin
fastening ties at my back and neck provide the only means of support.
You’d think I was tramping around in my usual under outfit save for the one
major alteration. Instead of the simple leather fabric of my usual
underlining, this one is outlined in fur, the soft coat stitched seamlessly over
the curvature of each breast. One side midnight black, the other a brilliant
snowflake. Black beaded chains adorned in teeth hang from the bottom of
the cups, the overlapping loops meant to dangle over my bare abdomen.
The accompanying bottom is an absolute nightmare.
Not only are they crafted from the same leather/fur monstrosity,
but they’re made with even less fabric. I suck in a horrified breath as I press
the skirt against my legs, realizing the piece barely reaches mid-thigh. I’ll
have to situate them as low as possible on my hips to comfortably cover my
backside.
“Unbelievable,” I clip out under my breath, internally ruing the
day Nicias was born. “There seems to be something of a fabric shortage
here in Tairheia.”
“Ser Jakobian also sent these,” Signy adds, carefully sidestepping
my sarcasm. The small cuffs are again fashioned from the same hideous
material as my other clothing, but these are much smaller than the battle
cuffs Roman gifted me.
“What’s with the opposing hues?” I ask, calmly deciding it best to
reserve my fury for the true culprit.
“In honor of the Dueling Wolves.” The euphoric gleam in her
eyes communicates her elation over this particular legend. I don’t interrupt
as she begins her account. “It is said that in every soul dwells a mated pair
of wolves. One clouded in darkness, the other shrouded in light. The mates
are said to be in constant combat with one another, dueling for mastery over
the soul.”
“Which is victorious?” I question, fully engrossed in the legend.
“Which ever one the soul feeds.” Her ominous expression is
harrowing, a sight concealing despicable deeds. I make a mental note not to
turn my back on this female. “Come now,” she says, ushering me into the
bathing chamber, “we must prepare you for the evening.”
Any hour later, after I’ve been washed and primed, I find myself
sitting at the desk with Clio at my back, waiving her way through my hair.
I’m not sure what she’s up to, but the sense of her hands at my scalp feels
soothingly familiar. I rest my eyelids as Signy sets about transforming my
facial features into something more “presentable.”
Apparently, my usually look is more akin to a feral barbarian than
a lady.
“How much longer?” I whine.
 “Hold still, you intolerable brat,” Signy hisses.
“Masque is probably over by now,” I murmur.
“You’re worse than a child,” Signy puffs in exasperation. Smiling
smugly, I sit back trying to appease my fluttering nerves. In a few short
hours I will have completed my vicious task, finally fulfilling my share of
the abominable deal with Jakobian.
Following another lengthy ordeal of gods only know what, Signy
grasps my arms urging me to stand. “All done. That wasn’t so dreadful,
now was it?”
Shelving a snide remark, I allow her to assist me with my new
outfit, her hands surprisingly gentle near the almost healed wounds at my
back, before leading me into the bathing chamber. She fastens an
assortment of wolf fang chains along my neck then positions me in front of
the floor length mirror, stepping away to offer me a glimpse of my
transformation. Stunned, I take a measured step forward. I hadn’t really
given much thought to the outcome, honestly didn’t care, but I never
expected this.
A ruthless goddess of darkness and moonlight.
My eyelashes having been lengthened, the humanly strands
distorted into the limbs of an arachnid. A thick swipe of kohl outlines the
top of my lids, a thinner swipe along the bottom rim. Powder the hue of
charcoal has been smudged along the crease above the kohl, bequeathing
my eyes dominion over smoke and shadow.
My hair is the work of the Amazon’s, a vision honored exclusively
to the warrior eager for battle and bloodshed. Clio’s creation consists of
three thin braids woven equidistant from each other in the space just above
each ear, the raven plaits intertwined with miniature links and chains. The
free hair near the top of my head has been teased up and allowed free reign,
the untamed waves swaying savagely down my back.
When I was a child, I always dreaded this aspect of my future. I’d
seen my mother go through it and as juvenile as I was, I never wanted to
endure such discomfort. However, even though the process was tedious,
torturous even, I must admit I don’t hate the finished product. I look older,
fiercer, my features more pronounced and defined. With menace fanning off
me in droves, I appear furious and alive.
My spirit plummets when thoughts reach my sister. What I
wouldn’t give for Iren to have a life such as that, where her only concern
lay in appearance and manners as opposed to her ability to fight and defend.
She should be living, not merely surviving.
“Enough of that,” Signy commands. “I won’t have any tears
sullying my creation. The feet!” she cries in panic, throwing her hands in
the air.
Clio exits returning a moment later with a pair of black leather
sandals. Slipping into the snares, I wave her off as I secure the snaking
straps up along the length of my calves. Offering a smile of appeasement, I
allow my gaze to drop the length of my body. My blood boils by the
amount of inked flesh exposed by the ridiculous ensemble.
The vine of thorns is striking as it twines its course around my left
bicep. The leather straps of my sandal intersect the slim dagger running
along my right calf. My skirt rests so low along my hips, the large sign of
the Omega stained just below my navel is displayed for the world to see.
Even the dainty Aquila constellation etched on the top of my right foot is
exposed. My only consolation seems to be the fact that my dangling hair
hides the stained ink along my spine, the exact replica of my father’s
beloved spear.
Not to mention the shredded skin at my back, ravaged thoroughly
by my own Alala.
The brash hounding from the other room has the three of us
returning to the chamber. I wave Signy away when she tries opening the
door, insisting I was given arms for reasons other than maiming. I’m busy
pondering the best means of vengeance to inflict on Nicias that I practically
rip the wood right off its hinges. I’m in the midst of a tirade when I notice
it’s a different Jakobian that’s decided to drop by.
Breathing becomes an impossibility as I behold my striking CO in
all his raw, bare-chested glory. His usually hidden ink is uncovered yet
again. A sight so devastatingly breathtaking you’d think I haven’t seen it in
ages. This time though, I really allow myself to study the masterpiece
stained into his skin.
Now just to be clear, it’s not that I haven’t seen Roman’s ink
before. Hell, I got my first glimpse the night we met. Those strong dark
lines curving along his arms, peeking out from beneath his uniform, but
I’ve never studied the sight in its entirety.
A single, intricate, meandering design reflects each half of his
chest, commencing just below the waistband. The mirrored affect gives off
the impression of body-hugging arm, engulfing his muscles like an extra
layer of inked protection. The strong fluid lines ink along the panes of his
chest, continuing over the bulging muscles of his arms. Curves and swirls
branch out at certain instances, the ends sharp, pointed, and unforgiving.
The lines never intersecting, the ink flowing freely from one another but
never separate, the entire work connected.
When our eyes finally meet, I know his actions replicate my own.
He, too, taking in the full sight of me. His expression, a mixture of hunger
and fury, sears me from the inside out.
The Phoenix at the climax of its existence. A creature of the verge
of flames.
“Clio, Signy, thank you for your help. I can take it from here.” The
dismissal is clear.
“What about your mask?” cries Signy as if I’ve just insulted her.
“I think I can manage.” The words are clipped, the message
transparent. My eyes still refuse to leave his, tethered in place by the
strongest of forces. With a huff they exit, leaving Roman and I alone, half-
naked, inked, and coveting a melee of the flesh.
“Can you turn?” I ask after a moment. He obliges, slowly turning in
place, offering his back for admiration.
The identical black design from his chest follows the same course
over his back, the two halves mirroring across the spine. But instead of
armor, this work resembles wings of darkness poised for flight. I run my
fingers over the design, the smooth flesh warm beneath my touch. His back
arches, surprised by the intimacy, but he doesn’t pull away, allowing me
free reign over the landscape.
Under any other circumstances, I despise Dire ink. I divert my
gaze as often as possible, so I don’t fixate on Bastien’s tally marks or Alek’s
depictions of battle. My own stains repulse me unlike any other, the
gruesome reminders I cover up whenever possible. But standing here,
running my fingers over Roman’s stained figure, I can’t control the warmth
blooming in my treacherous body.
Trailing downward, my fingers pause at the waist of his trousers,
calling my attention back to the rest of him. Moving around to face him, I
take a step backward to admire the view. Unclad as he may be from the
waist up, the ink along his legs is covered down to the shins by tight fitting
trousers fashioned of ebony leather. In likeness of my own, his trousers are
adorned with thick grey fur, the stormy pelt of a timber wolf. An honor
bestowed for Krua’s Grey Commander. A thin sliver of inked skin is visible
in the space separating his trousers from his dark warn boots.
“Too good for a mask?” I surmise.
“Wouldn’t want to deny the world any of this,” he says, gesturing
towards his face in a very un-Roman like manner. My answering cackle
prods a reluctant grin from the commander’s face. “I forgot it. I’ll go back
for it later,” he explains clearing his throat, “I have something for you.”
His hand slides into the right pocket of his trousers, retrieving a
small, wrapped bundle. Handing it over, his calloused fingers gently graze
the inside of my palm. My blood thrums with excitement as I tear into the
tiny gift, carefully untying the string secured around the outer wrapping.
Out of the bundle tumbles a tiny iron charm, the refined piece dangling
from a black velvet string, the glossy metal glittering in the flame of the
chamber torches. Upon closer inspection, I notice the charm was sculpted to
model a crescent moon. Running my thumb over the smooth trinket, I note
the roughness scraping my fingers from the opposite side.
I almost drop the damn thing when I catch sight of the sigil of
Nymphai engraved into the backside iron.
“Roman…” I’m at a true loss for words. I’m angry, the sight
filling me with such shame and grief, but touched in equal measure.
“Peia,” he voices, the tone the softest I’ve ever heard from him.
“Don’t forget about home, Hypatia. No matter how painful those memories
might be, don’t ever overlook them.”
Taking my hands in his own he urges me to take another look at
the engraving, imploring me to uncover something I’ve missed. Turning
back to the etching, I notice there, inside the heart of the howling wolf, is an
elegantly sketched “M.”
Madaeus.
I wish I knew what prompted this gift, but I don’t ask.
I trust Roman with my life, more importantly with Iren’s life, so
whatever his reasoning, I let it go.
“I’m not sure how you managed this, Roman, but thank you. It’s
beautiful.”
With a nod he adds, “I thought you could wear it tonight.”
Passing the charm back, I lift my hair, allowing him easier access
to fasten the velvet behind my neck. The charm rest perfect down the valley
of my breasts. His fingers linger as he straightens the trinket and I revel in
that small contact.
“We should get going before your date’s too drunk to see
straight.” With that, he ceases all contact with my ignited skin. I yearn for
him to continue that exploration, maybe even let that finger descend, but I
don’t voice it.
Now isn’t the time for pleasure.
“Nicias isn’t much of a drinker,” I say instead.
“Yeah well, enduring Silas for an entire evening might just do that
to a person. Where’s your mask?”
“Ugh, a mask. I can’t believe people actually enjoy wearing
these,” I utter with sheer disdain as I reach into the box Signy left. The
mask is sleek, dainty even, crafted from the finest of metals by the looks of
it. The wolf like design covers the portion of the face from nose to brow, the
numerous cutouts allowing glimpses of the skin underneath. And just like
the rest of my ensemble, the mask is duel colored, the two hues separated
diagonally across the mask, the upper left section forged ebony, the lower
right in dusty snow. Roman assists me with the tie in the back, his fingers
securing the mask firmly in place. “So, how do I look? Like a furry hetaira,
I’m guessing.”
“You are the fiercest wolf I’ve ever beheld.” My answering
humph prompts him to continue. “See for yourself.” He gestures towards
the mirror.
Roman isn’t wrong. I may have looked deadly before but with the
mask, I’m positively otherworldly. I’m no longer human. No longer made
of flesh and bone, so easily broken and swept from the earth. Now, I’m
something more. Something forged in the forest by the children of the
moon, nourished until I know nothing but fight and fury. I was made by
men, born into their world, but raised by wolves. And now, I’m neither.
Now, I’m both.
Coming up behind me, his knuckles graze along the length of my
spine, so very careful with the delicate flesh, the tender stroke forcing an
embarrassingly sensual moan from my lips. I find myself arching back, my
skin sensitive under his warm touch. “What’s this?” A gentle kiss placed
right beneath my left earlobe.
“A spear.” My reply is weak, breathless.
“You know what I mean, Peia. Each one of these means
something to you. What’s the spears significance? Which kill does it
mark?”
Stepping away, I state a bit miffed, “Andvari Sidero.”
“The slave trader? Why would he occupy such a large space on
your back?” I turn to face him.
“My father hated the man. Would’ve killed him himself if given
the chance.”
“And the spear belonged to your father.” Not a question.
“It was his preferred weapon. We should get going.” I’m reaching
down for my double sheathe when Roman stalls my arm.
“No weapons tonight.”
“How am I supposed to fight without weapons,” I snap.
“Tonight, you won’t be there as a guard or enforcer. You’ll be
there as a guest, as Nicias’s date. You won’t need them.”
“I’m not going without them.” I can’t afford to budge on this.
“Jakobian’s orders,” he admits shamefully. “There’s nothing that
can be done. But since when do you rely on weapons?”
“I can’t go without them, Roman.”
At least the dagger is already stashed beneath my skirt.
After a moment of deliberation, he suggests, “How about I wear
them to the Masque. That way if you need them, they’ll be down there.”
“And what about your blade?”
“I can certainly survive a few hours without a weapon,” he adds
arrogantly.
That’ll have to do.
Grinning, I hand over my sheathe.
“Let’s get this over with,” I mumble, already dreading the night to
come.

OceanofPDF.com
 CHAPTER 31
Roman and I travel down together, making a quick detour for his mask
along the way. At this hour the halls are practically abandoned save for a
few scampering servants. With the Wild Masque being held in the palace
gardens, near the cliffs edge overlooking the southern seaboard, most of the
palace residents are already outside enjoying the festivities.
“Where’s Nicias?” I have to see my so-called escort. “If he’s not
down here, I don’t see why I’m being forced to attend.”
“He’s down here. Believe me. He’s been drowning on about
tonight for the last couple of days, there’s no way he’s missing it. I told him
I’d walk you down, wanted to make sure your violent habits were under
control before setting you loose at the Masque. Couldn’t have you killing
everyone.”
“Don’t give me any ideas,” I mumble as we make our way out
onto the stoa, my nerves running rampant. I’d be lying if I said my
apprehension was based solely on my task for the Alpha. Though that’s the
main concern, the idea of spending the evening stripped bare, stains out and
exposed for the soldiers of Lyca without my trusty khopesh mates at my
back, fills me with an urge to run, to skip the entire evening in favor of
searching the streets for my brother.
The night is beautiful, clear, the gentlest breeze clearing away any
lingering clouds, gifting the moon her rightful focal point in the sky. The
rumble of the crowd grows as we draw closer, the steady beat of the drums
pounding in synch with my thrashing heart. As the final turn approaches,
my feet freeze, the stubborn bastards unwilling to travel any farther. My
instincts have never failed me. They’ve kept me alive in my enemies’ hands
all these years and I trust them without fail. And tonight, they’re shrieking,
pleading with me to reconsider. To retreat. This isn’t the place for a
daughter of a fallen Nymphai, they say, withdraw and fight another day.
“Peia,” Roman starts, “I know you hate us all, but Nicias is the
best of us. And he cares for you. Try to enjoy yourself. And not that it
matters,” he whispers, stepping closer, “but it’ll be an extremely difficult
feat keeping my eyes off you tonight.”
Bringing his mask up, a grey metallic piece covering only the left
portion of his face, he grants me a mischievous half-hidden smile before
strutting off around the corner without another word. Mustering more
willpower than I thought possible, I continue after him.
The sight greeting me is of another world. A place of gods and
immortals, not men and their impermanence.
Lanterns are alight and strung along either side of the walkway,
beginning at the top of the stoa following the path into the garden,
illuminating the guests entrance. Bones, carcasses of indeterminable
animals, litter the dirt floor on either side. Wolf skulls sit impaled upon
spikes alongside the path, each beast’s eyes situated downward. The
honored hunters inspecting their ravaged prey. A few thin flames are
interspersed among the discarded bones, giving the area an eerie quality
like that of an upended necropolis. Razed, ruined, and left for the buzzards.
Near the middle of the path, the flat area on either side seems to
have been dedicated to the nourishment of the Pack. The spread laid out is
large enough to feed the entire population of Lyca, not to mention the
number of drinks on display. In the distance, I notice the walkway leading
down to the boatshed has been decorated as well, identical lanterns strung
about on either side. Some masked soldiers mingle along either side of the
steps, most gathered thickly around the refreshment tables.
As detestable as the capitol and most of its inhabitants are, I can’t
deny the majestic vision of the celebration.
Shoulders back, head held high, I make my descent, each footfall
carrying me closer to the crowd. I anticipated a few glances thrown my
way, but nothing could’ve prepared me for the attention my entrance
receives from the deadliest of Lyca.
The sea of beasts stands motionless, each set of lupine eyes fixed
on me. Most sneer, some ogle, but not a single wolf turns away. Now
understand, the fixation of the crowd has nothing to do with beauty or my
figure as a woman. Those attributes equate to less than nothing among the
Pack. My worth and allure is measured by the volume of blood on my
hands. With most of my ink on full display, along with my mask and the
skeleton remnants I’m sporting as jewelry, I fully embody my deathly title.
I’m no longer a work of myth, no longer the being of legend that parents
warn their children of. Tonight, my ink displays me for who I am.
The bringer of death, collector of souls.
Tonight, a nightmare made flesh walks among the wolves of Lyca.
Before the urge to stab someone in the eye becomes irrepressible, I
spot a tall brown wolf sauntering over. Like most of the other attendees,
he’s misplaced his shirt, his brown trousers hanging low. His locks are
styled in a way that allows only a single line of hair down the center to
remain upright, the remainder slicked back at the sides. Apart from a large
section missing around the mouth area, the brown metallic mask covers
almost the entire canvas of his face. But the man could be wearing a bucket
and I’d still recognize him.
“Someone certainly knows how to make an entrance,” Nicias jokes
when he reaches me. The fruity aroma I recognize as my new favorite wine
wafts off his warm breath, infiltrating the air around me. The ease in his
gaze is palpable, the anguish from the library having washed away.
Aided by the spirits he’s consuming thus far, I’m guessing.
“Someone’s certainly knocked a few back already,” I tease.
“I’m going to talk to him, Peia. I’m going to talk to him.” Swaying,
he guides us through the crowd towards the spread of refreshments, his
coaxing arm a permanent fixture at the small of my back.
My body follows while my mind wanders, insentiently mulling
over the repercussions of his words. A familiar feeling of guilt washes over
me as I realize the gravity of the situation. By the end of the night, I’ll be
the reason he’s left fatherless and vulnerable against greater threats lurking
in the shadows.
Guilt isn’t a strong enough word for what I feel.
Shame is close.
Revulsion is closer.
Either way, the job must be done.
For Iren.
Fortifying myself to the present, I stoically accept the goblet
presented by Nicias, downing its contents with one long swig. Declining a
second, knowing my mind must stay sharp for the night ahead, I follow
Nicias past the swaying bodies, fully immersed in the rhythmic beating,
down the stone laid path. We stop at one of the lower levels, an area allotted
to a collection of tables and benches bordering a dancing crowd. I’m
pleased to discover the starring and gawking have ceased, the horde better
preoccupied enjoying their evening than bothering with the tiny traitorous
being ambling among them. Nis takes a seat at one of the empty tables
closest to the dance area, with me taking the place beside him.
A large rectangular portion of the lower garden has been partitioned
and arranged for dancing, with tables and benches surrounding the area on
three of the four sides. Each of the long tables glow, alit with tiny,
interspersed flames that I envision to be fireflies enjoying their evening.
Lanterns dangle overhead across the tables and over the dance floor,
illuminating the masses. An assembly of musicians are clustered in one of
the dark corners, out of sight but never forgotten. We watch as the masked
wolves of Lyca rock and sway in junction with the beat of the drums.
“Thank you for the mask, but I’m going to kill you for the
clothing,” I shout over the roar of the drums. He laughs, a full body sound
that has me joining in.
“I expected that, but I just couldn’t help myself. I thought my
cousin might appreciate it, though I had a feeling you wouldn’t approve.”
Seated side by side, I find myself leaning into him. And when his
arm comes to rest over my shoulder in an all but forgotten brotherly gesture,
I can’t seem to find the certitude to tell him to stop.
Selfish creature, that’s what I am.
Among other things.
The rhythm is all consuming, invading every aspect of conscious
thought, until all I feel is movement, all I crave is dance. My body moves
with each pounding, my head lulling side to side. I realize what I’m doing
but I can’t make stop. Not that I wish to. There’s something hypnotic about
watching the bodies move together. Unable to hold back any longer, I tug
Nis behind me towards the salacious furor, a silent invitation to join me in
the enchantment of the night. I notice Galen, slinking amongst the shadows,
his gaze trained on the young wolf at my side. I can’t help but smile as the
young sentry stands guard, comforted that Nicias has one such as he at his
back. I wonder if Nicias wished it were a different grasp pulling him into
the throngs. Fueled either by guilt or favor, I vow to secure them a moments
privacy at some point this evening.
The masks, which I first regarded as an ostentatious requirement
from the Pack, I have now come to lionize. They’re liberating, offering me
the gift of concealment if only for a few hours. I’m not the murderous Ker
of Krua dancing with the Alpha’s youngest. We’re merely two wolves lost
among the Pack.
I allow this newfound sense of freedom to navigate my evening,
overlooking the task awaiting me at the commencement of the Howl, at the
chiming of the haunting hour when midnight strikes.
At one point during the evening, I sense him, my eyes quickly
latching on to the pair of evergreen irises of the tall grey wolf standing
directly across my spot with Nis. I can’t make out his expression with the
mask, but I can imagine it mirrors my own.
After spending so much time with other wolves this trip, I realize
the only person who knows what I can give, who understands what little my
soul has left to offer, is him.
My tetchy, volatile CO.
I swallow the urge to walk over, confident he’s the one person
never going anywhere. Instead, losing myself to the rhythm once again
while committing the moment to memory.

OceanofPDF.com
 CHAPTER 32
As the night draws on, my nerves clear, the surrounding merriment
saturating the atmosphere in a potent veneer of elation I can’t help but yield
to. The dagger weighs heavy against my skin, a burden beckoning at my
back, but I’m primed and ready. Soon, my task will be complete, and Iren
will be free. Liberated. Limitless in her existence.
After hours of dancing, we return to our previous table, now
overrun with fellow Dire who, apart from the ever-charming Spyridon, are a
welcome sight. It seems Zale is honoring the common wolf, his trousers
shrouded in thick, tawny fur. Shirtless, a baldric hangs across his chest,
thick sections of the same fur stitched along its center. His mask is akin to
mine, the glossy piece shielding forehead to nose, the golden hue glittering
in the flames.
Milos has elected to honor the black wolf this evening, his pants
swathed in the thick fur of the beast. His full coverage mask is a
masterpiece, heavy but intricately detailed, the sable sheen emitting a flair
of elegance so at odds with his standard rugged appearance. Absinthe, who
hasn’t fled far from Milos side the entire Masque, is garbed as a snow wolf,
her frosty guise complimenting Milos’s to perfection. The clothing is just as
modest as what I’ve donned for the Masque, though her skin isn’t nearly as
tarnished as mine. Her mask is exquisite, a type of inverted disguise
fashioned in resemblance to a diadem, with the center portion elongated to
obscure any glimpse of her nose. The outer corners reach upward, rounding
slightly in likeness of an artic wolf. The entire mask twinkles in competition
with the night sky, the adorning translucent gems glistening in the firelight.
As I take the seat across them, I can’t seem to keep my eyes from
the striking sight. Milos’s evident gawking suggests I may not be the only
one.
 “I had no idea deities were invited to the Masque. Where did you
come across this one Milos?” Absinth counters my taunt with a lewd
gesture she may have learned from me. Milos resounding snicker halts
abruptly, his attention shifting just over my shoulder.
As I turn to investigate what’s turned the atmosphere around the
table so dour, my stomach revolts, threatening to return the little I’ve
managed to consume during the evening. For, at this very moment, my
trusty Alala has decided to grace us with his presence, a large pint grasped
in one hand, an exceptionally drunk Frona grasped in the other.
An eyeful of Bastien unclothed would’ve been a more pleasing
sight.
I can feel Nicias tense up beside me, his unease outshining my
own. It doesn’t take long for the pair to reach the table, Alek sliding into the
seat across. Not interested in the little spectacle taking place between the
two arrivals, I quietly excuse myself, murmuring something about hunting
for sweets.
Treading back up to the refreshment spread, I decide on a few
delectable looking confections. The first zesty nibble of a fruit tart has just
blessed my tongue, when an unwelcomed purr strokes my left ear. I flinch,
dropping my delicious treat, reaching for a khopesh that isn’t there. But it
isn’t the slimy voice that unnerves me.
It’s the word it breathes life to.
“Talanichi.” Javan’s voice is like a ghost, a ghastly remembrance
from a past life.
“What did you just call me?” His mask is raised, the metal resting
atop his head, uncovering his responding smirk. The sight sets my blood on
fire.
“Let’s dance, shall we?” Our eyes remain locked as he grasps my
arm, his fingers guiding me towards the lower level. I don’t object as his
hands make their way to my hips, hitching me closer. I ignore Nicias’s
questioning look as I wait for Javan to explain.
“What did you call me?” I repeat, now thoroughly riled.
“Isn’t that what your precious tribe used to call you?” His tone
sweet as nectar.
“Enough,” I bark, shoving him away. “Where did you hear that
name?”
There isn’t a soul alive apart from my siblings that knows of that
title. Not even Roman or Alek knows of my old nickname.
The Pathfinder died that night along with the rest of my tribe.
Grinning devilishly, he whispers a single sesquipedalian word, a
title by the sound of it, in a tongue I can’t place. His smirk widens, clearly
amused by my confusion.
“Everything okay?” Nicias interrupts.
“Everything’s fine. I was just leaving. Enjoy the rest of your
evening, Ker.” Javan gives me a final grin before sauntering away. I’m
tempted to run after him but now isn’t the time. It’s only a half hour until
midnight and I need to prepare.
“What was that all about?” Nicias looks as tense as I feel.
“Oh, you know. Just the usual nonsense.” Seemingly satisfied by
my response, he guides me back to our now vacant table.
“They were eager to get up front for the Howl,” he explains. “I’m
going to get another pint. Care for one?”
“I’m fine.”
With a tight grin, he takes off across the now thinning dance floor,
leaving me to my thoughts. The other tables have cleared out as well, the
area almost deserted aside from myself. My little interaction with Javan has
me distracted and I don’t notice the figure seated across from me until he
pointedly clears his throat.
The male stranger is young, his mask only concealing the upper
portion of his face, revealing a charming smile below. His bare arms are
braced against the table, his pale fingers laced leisurely. Grisly scars run up
the course of his arms, across his neck, following the course of his bare
chest.
This is a body well acquainted with pain.
His head cocks to the side, his smile growing. I can see now that
the look is insincere, not an illustration of happiness, but a false expression
veiling the vile substance lurking beneath. I discreetly transfer my hands
from the table down to my sides, a mere inch from my stashed dagger.
If he’s scratching for a fight, he chose the wrong opponent.
Regarding him closely, my eyes never leave his, my fingertips
casually brushing the hilt of my weapon. I can’t risk bringing unwarranted
attention to myself at this point, a fight completely out of the question. The
only option is to remain on the defensive and wait to see how this plays out.
The world stills as a string of words leaves his lips. His smile shifts
into a sinister leer, his husky voice pouring into the night, the gravelly
words an arrow straight to the chest. Because despite the challenging
tongue, I’d recognize the words anywhere.
I better. I’ve spent the last week trying to decode them.
Recognition hits violently as I take in the scars, the depravity
radiating off him in waves. His mention of the Mother solidifies him as a
follower. But this man isn’t just any acolyte.
He’s a Shade, one of the heartlessly, barbarous mercenaries who
abide by no laws or protocols, who fuel solely on the promise of blood and
the pledge of coinage.
A ruthless assassin here for a single purpose.
But who?
His eyes shoot past my shoulder for a split second, his leer
deepening.
Nicias.
Ripping my dagger from its sheath, I slash across the table, aiming
for his neck. My outburst catches him off-guard, the first swipe catching
him in the arm as he attempts to deflect. The second attack he dodges
before unsheathing a blade of his own. With speed that could rival my own,
he stabs across the table narrowly missing my shoulder. I slash out once
again, this time connecting with the soft tissue of his cheek. Momentarily
gaining the advantage, I use the opportunity to flip the table over, pinning
him to the ground with the solid wood surface. Jumping over the upturned
table, he has the chance to utter a single word before I impale the point of
my dagger clean through his right eye.
“Talanichi,” he croaks, his face contorting into an unsettling grin,
blood trinkling from the corner of his mouth, as he takes his final breath.
Retrieving my grisly blade, I skirt around the bleeding corpse.
Choosing to ignore my curiosity for the time being, I dash off in search of
Nis. I make it two steps towards the dance floor when I see him descending
the stairwell, a large, masked figure following at his back. Trusting my gut
and tossing all restraint to the wind, I send my dagger flying past my
escort’s head. Nicias shoots to the ground on instinct, the cool metal
whipping through the night air, piercing the dark clothed figured in the
chest. He lands with a loud clunk, his body tumbling down the remaining
stairs.
“What the fuck, Peia?” Nicias roars as he returns to his feet. Taking
a quick glance around, I notice two more figures in black heading down the
stairs, another running up the path from the boatshed. Within moments
we’ll be surrounded.
And I just flung my only weapon across the damn staircase.
Brilliant, Peia. Just brilliant.
“Nis, shut up and draw your sword. And where the fuck is Galen?”
Finally noticing the freshly lifeless corpse, he does as instructed. His breath
hitches as he spots our oncoming company.
“He was called to the dungeons. Something about a fire. Who are
they?”
“Shades,” I explain, “I think they’re here for you. Keep your sword
up and stay close. And whatever you do, do not let them draw blood. They
dip their steel in Manticorian poison, so one swipe is all it takes.”
As the looming figures advance, I gauge out about a one-minute
gap before we’re forced to face the three. Cursing Jakobian to the fires of
Tartarus for banning my blades, I’m almost tempted to ask Nicias for his,
but leaving him without a weapon isn’t an option. With the seconds ticking
by, there’s no time for second guessing.
“That one’s yours,” I instruct, indicating the one headed up the
boat shed path. “Leave these two to me.”
Abandoning my grisly plan for the Alpha, my sole chance at
ensuring my sister’s freedom, I brace myself for a fight. I know it’s a
gamble facing off with two Shades unarmed, might as well slit my own
throat, but I don’t feel a single shred of apprehension. I no longer fear
death. No longer dread the thought of my sister living on without me
because I know deep down there are others who would fight to the brink to
protect her. If this is indeed the fight that sends me down the River Styx, I’ll
gladly drown in the murky waters if it gives Nis a shot at survival.
Turning towards the Shades, I unleash my savagery in a cloud of
limbs and fists. Each strike is certain, each blow precise, the brutal
movements an elegant dance of violence. They’re skills are unparalleled,
their penchants for death the work of monsters, but despite the odds, I hold
my own. Neither draws a single blade, surely too caught up in our battle of
bones. I can hear the clashing of metal at my back, occasionally stealing a
glance to assess how Nicias is fairing. Though still breathing, I can tell the
Shade is reigning in his strength against the Alpha’s son. His movements
are relaxed, bored even, toying with the young wolf. It’s only a matter of
time before the Shade gets tired with his play and decides to finish off the
game. And unless I can kill my own, I’ll be forced to watch as a friend is
sent straight to the boatman.
Mustering any lingering strength, I charge the one nearest, bringing
him to his knees. I gouge my thumbs into his sockets, before roughly
encircling his head. With a quick snap of the neck, his limp body slumps to
the floor. Lacking time or options, I rush for the hilt of my dagger, the blade
still lodged into the first lifeless Shades chest. My fingers have just curled
around the cool metal when a hand grabs at my ankle, ripping me
backwards. Approximating the distance between us I twist, swinging my
arm wide. Blood spurts, the splatter raining down on me as the crimson
liquid cascades from the slash across his throat. Springing to my feet, I rush
to Nicias, ramming into the remaining Shades back. I sink my blade down
at the peak of his spine, repeating the attack until he reaches an arm over his
shoulder, throwing me off. I lose my grip on the dagger, the hilt taunting me
as it remains inserted into the bulky Shades back.
How’s he’s still breathing, I have no idea, but I have little time for
pondering. From my spot on the floor, I can see his dark eyes narrowing,
his scarred fingers clenching tightly around the hilt of his own sword.
He’s ready to finish his task.
Desperate, I lunge, wildly throwing up my arm as a shield while
shoving Nicias out of the way. I take the brunt of the assault on my left
forearm, the blade slicing clean through the pathetic material of my cuff,
marring the skin beneath. The scarlet liquid trickling from the gash
confirms what I already know.
My breaths are numbered. My fate sealed.
I have mere minutes before the poison fully takes hold and I’m
rendered useless. Unable to stomach the idea of Nicias enduring the same
fate, I charge, tackling the Shade to the ground. Pinning his sword arm with
my foot, I entangle my fingers through his long snowy locks. Clenching
with all the force I have left, I ram his head against the hard floor, the sound
of fracturing bone invigorating my fading strength. It takes seven blows
before his struggle ceases completely, seven harrowing cracks for the light
to leave his eyes.
My hands are sticky and stained, a testament to my atrocious deeds,
but they mean nothing. The sight of Nis alive, despite their murderous
intentions, quells any concerns I may have over the trail of bodies I live
behind this evening. The relief is fleeting as I try to stand.
“Peia,” Nicias whispers, defeated.
“It’s just a scratch.” Lie. “I’ll be fine.” I don’t object as the young
wolf helps me to my feet. I sway slightly, almost falling once again, as the
sound of heavy footfalls fills the air. I’m relieved, until I realize which
direction the sounds originate. These aren’t Lycan reinforcements coming
from the Masque. No, these are outsiders ambushing from the sea,
traveling up from the boatshed trail.
I’m not naïve, I know the chances of survival are slim.
But this isn’t the first time I’ve faced those odds.
“Nicias, run. I’ll hold them off. Find Roman.” I’m not sure how
deep the sedition runs, but I know my CO is the one person we can trust.
“You can’t take them all, Peia. You’re injured.” Gently taking my
chin, gaze as formidable as the Aegean, he states, “You don’t always need
to protect me. I’m not useless. And I’m not going anywhere.”
Stubborn as an ass.
Reclaiming my dagger, it seems we’ve got two weapons between
the pair. Appalling odds but seeing as I can barely stand, let alone run,
they’ll have to do. I can make out five of them ascending from below, their
masks as dark as an unlit sky. Their pace is unhurried, painstakingly drawn-
out.
The calm before the storm.
The poison has worked its way through my system, the toxin like
an acid searing beneath my skin, but I gear up for the end, clutching my
dagger like it’s a lifeline. They’re only a few yards away, their blades
unleashed and willing, when I hear it.
My salvation.
“Peia!” The sound of my deliverance rumbles across the night sky,
my unfailing beacon through the land of the damned. Barreling down the
path, Roman rips my double sheath from his back, sending it skating across
the smooth floor. Shorn of time, I opt out of fastening it across my back,
instead bracing my foot in the nook between the two blades, unleashing
them in a single fluid motion.
“Raise your sword and remember what I said about the poison,” I
grumble to a very nervous looking Nicias. With Roman headed our way it’ll
even out the odds a bit, increase Nicias’s chance of surviving the night, but
we don’t have the luxury of waiting.
 Facing the collective, I retreat to the far corner of my mind, the
animalistic region focused entirely on survival. The pain becomes on
afterthought, the fatigue a minor nuisance. Even the effects of the poison
are nothing more than a slight ache.
Charging forward, I take out the one nearest with a bounding kick
to the stomach. The moment my feet touch down I send another kick to the
form at my back. The smallest of the group pounces, his sword intended for
the flesh at my left shoulder. I take the block with ease, my foot landing a
blow to the short figures face. The largest one charges, his swing a definite
death sentence. I bow under it, the blade’s trailing wind softly ruffling the
top of my hair, while slashing my khopesh across his chest. Dropped down
on one I knee, I finish him off with a stab through the abdomen, utilizing
his impaled body as a shield from the next assault.
Sensing a presence at my back, I impulsively raise my free blade.
The clashing of steel is deafening, the collision rivaling a thunderbolt from
the God of the Sky. I hold the block, my arm muscles buckling under the
strain. A moment later the pressures released, the assailant a headless corpse
on the ruby dyed ground. Ripping my khopesh free of its scabbard of flesh,
my dependable CO grips me under the arms, hauling me to my feet.
Admiring the carnage, I tally the bodies strewn about. All five
Shades are dead, one without a head, another missing his sword hand. A
swell of pride surges at the sight of the dismembered limb lying at Nicias’s
feet, the hilt of its sword still clutched tightly in its grasp.
“Are you alright?” Roman’s voice is gruff and uneven.
“Her arm,” Nicias answers.
Having forgotten the wound during our latest scuffle, I hesitantly
raise my injured forearm, displaying the gash for Roman’s inspection. He
takes the limb gingerly between his own, his fingers tenderly whipping
away the excess blood. I tense up, my body preparing for a pain that never
manifests.
“There’s nothing here,” Roman avows, his eyes keenly scrutinizing
the area on my arm.
“That’s impossible,” Nis protests. “I saw the wound myself.”
Snatching the limb back, I, too, am flummoxed by the lack of sliced
skin. What should be an area coated in festering flesh and poisoned blood
seems to be relatively unscathed, apart from some swelling and minor
redness. The damage appears to be nothing more than a shallow scratch on
the mend, the wound of a child having nicked a bush.
“What the fuck?” Nicias mutters.
A low scuffling nearby grabs my attention as a seemingly dead
Shade rises to his feet. My jaw sinks to my chest, but it isn’t the
resurrection that has me gapping.
It’s the words spilling from his mouth.
“The Mother’s coming for you,” he sputters, blood dribbling from his lips,
his words spoken in the Shadow Tongue, the common language of the
Shades. “The Mother’s coming for you all.”

OceanofPDF.com
 CHAPTER 33
The dark-haired Shade is forced to the ground in an instant, Roman’s body
braced heavily atop him. The blood curdling sound of his malevolent
laughter chills the warm breeze, goosebumps peppering my exposed skin.
He raises his head, his mask falling away, revealing a set of the most
disturbing yellow eyes. The sight is sickening, the ominous hue more
creature like then human. I tear my gaze away, turning my attention to
Roman. Cackling, the Shade begins rambling on in the Archaic Tongue,
incessantly reciting the exact inscription written on Eon’s parchment.
“Nicias! Nicias!” a voice thunders in the distance. “Where is my
son?”
“Down here!” Nis shouts, alerting his father to our location.
Soon I can discern panicked footfalls migrating closer, the sounds
of rattled Masque goers shrieking about, but I don’t take my eyes off
Roman. He also seems intent on keeping an eye on me, as if any second, I
might just disappear on him. The sound of hefty boots and heavy breathing
is what finally derails our connection. As the Alpha approaches with
Jakobian and five guards in tow, my eyes are drawn to his blood-flecked
torso.
It seems we weren’t the only ones battling for our lives this
evening.
Heavy footfalls follow as Galen sprints down the steps, his
breathing labored when he finally reaches us. As he takes in the bloody
group, I’ve never seen the guard so flustered, his demeanor finally calming
when he takes in Nicias.
“How many were there?” Kane barks. Gone is his standard
composed demeanor, his usual calmness, replaced with a severity that
commands respect. This is Alpha Kaneous in all his glory, the one Nicias
spoke of. The wolf who leads the Pack and rules every territory across
Lyca.
“Ten in total. This is the only survivor,” Roman growls, giving the
Shade beneath him a hard shove.
“Take him down to the catacombs,” Kane commands. “I want him
prepared for questioning.” Four of the guards step forward to retrieve the
prisoner. The Shades’ eyes immediately find mine, his speech switching
back to the Shadow Tongue.
“You can’t stop her Talanichi. The Mother’s very patient. Her time
is coming.” His words nothing but drivel.
“Who is this ‘Mother’ you keep jabbering on about?” I demand.
“Soon Talanichi. Very soon.” The maniacal glint in his eyes borders
on deranged, his words only bolstering his lunacy. The guards haul him
away, his mutterings spewing into the night, until he’s removed from sight.
“You understand his words?” Kane demands, his questioned aimed
at me.
Jakobian’s probing gaze leaves me cautious but seeing as honesty is
probably the safest option, I’m candor with my response. “Yes, I’m fluent in
the Shadow Tongue.”
Nodding, Kane looks pensive, the weathered lines of his face
deepening with the movement. “Good. Then you will translate for the
swine. Galen, you are to take Nicias to his quarters. No one enters apart
from I. Understood?” The young guard nods once before leading Nis away.
The journey down to the catacombs is tense, every soldier light on
their feet, weapons within reach, anticipating an attack. The route is poorly
lit, only a few lanterns hung every couple of feet. Even without my mask,
having discarded it near the palace foyer, it’s a struggle to make out the
path. I decide to follow Roman, sticking close to my CO’s back. When he
reaches for my hand I reach back, allowing our calloused palms to meet, his
firm fingers entangling with mine. He’s shed his mask as well, his glorious
scar on full display once again. But even with the scar, he doesn’t look half
as haggard as me.
I caught a glimpse of my reflection in one of the palace windows
and let’s just say I’d fit right in down in the Underworld. My flesh from the
waist up is stained crimson, blood splattered along each of my limbs. My
Dueling Wolf of light has been eradicated, replaced by a wolf of blood and
carnage.
 I am the Ker of Krua in her truest form.
Beastly without shame, murderous without remorse.
The narrow passageways are smothering, the hard stone taking but
never once giving in return. I map the route, mentally charting each turn in
case I ever have the misfortune of finding myself trapped in these very
dungeons. By my calculations, the entire trip takes just under a half hour,
the catacombs at least a mile underground. If I thought the stench wafting
from the training room was awful, it’s nothing compared to this.
The stale air is infused with putrid rot, saturated in rancid decay. I
bite down into my lower lip just to keep the bile at bay. I bet Eurynomos’s
haunt smells better than here and the creature eats rotting flesh for gods’
sake. Just as the reek surges, the halls widen out, opening into a small
rectangular chamber, our destination.
Roman releases my hand, striding to his father’s side. Though the
two seem in deep conversation, I can’t help but notice Jakobian’s gaze fixed
my way. I step to the far wall waiting for Kane’s further instruction. Upon
closer scrutiny, I realize what I assumed to be a chamber is more of a
terrace, a platform overlooking the dungeons below. Two parallel stairwells
sit at either end leading down into the dingy area beneath. The guards drag
the prisoner down the left-hand stairwell, the eerie eyed mercenary intent
on keeping his eyes on me. I move to follow, unsure where the interrogation
is to take place, when some obnoxious rambling echoes through the
passageway entrance, the voice’s owner not far behind.
“What is she doing down here?” Silas fumes, disdain leeching off
his every word. “You can’t trust the filthy Ker.” Roman has moved, taking a
place at my side. He doesn’t utter a word but the heat radiating off him, not
to mention his scowl, conveys enough.
“Tell me, son. Have you learned the Shadow Tongue and failed to
mention it? Have you taken time away from fucking and maiming to study
something useful?” Kane’s words mutilate more than a blade ever could,
the damage inflicted flaunted clear across Silas face. “That’s what I thought.
Now, either shut up and keep out of the way or leave.”
In my brief time in the capitol, I’ve never seen the Alpha act so
aggressively with another Pack member, let alone his own son. It’s clear by
the hurt and rage plaguing the eldest son’s features that this isn’t a new
occurrence.
Addressing me, Kane mandates, “I want to know why there here
and who they were after. I want to know who sent them and if there are any
more on the way. I don’t care how long it takes. I want those answers by
any means necessary. How experienced are you with torture?” He asks the
question so nonchalant you’d think we were talking about the weather.
“Experienced enough.” Truth be told, torture was the sole area of
training I constantly failed. Jakobian continually pushed me to be as brutal
as his other torturers, even tried threatening me to no avail. I guess Roman
got tired of dishing out punishments because he stopped that area of
training altogether.
“Good, but I’ll send one of my best down there with you if I decide
he requires extra attention.”
Nodding, my double sheath strapped securely to my back, I follow
the ancient steps down deeper into the earth. The descent isn’t long, the
balcony no more than twenty feet from the dungeon floor. As I move father
from the audience above, I come to realize that what I had assumed was a
single chamber is actually a foyer of sorts. The ovular room at the bottom is
dank, an unnatural chill to the air. My breaths puff out in front of me, the
breathings of a dragon. The walls are smooth ebony, the space along the
curve riddled with empty shackles. I can’t determine whether the ground is
dirt or stone through all the reeking fluids saturating the area. Teeth, bones,
and rotting, discarded limbs litter the space, the smell unimaginable at this
range. The wall directly across the balcony is cleaved in two, a hallway
leading out of the room running down the center. The path is as dark as a
moonless night, low moans and echoed screams beckoning me closer. I
don’t know how far the hallway goes or what horrors rest down there, but I
don’t care to find out. I continue my journey until I reach that last step. As
soon as my foot hits the bone ridden ground, the daemonic jeering begins.
“Couldn’t stay away now could you, Ker?” His sinister eyes are
ablaze, the unnatural hue intensified by the dim lightening giving off an
unearthly glow. The sound of the Shadow Tongue is unsettling. I stop a few
feet from the shackled prisoner, his venomous demeanor putting me on
edge. The inkling that he’s exactly where he wants to be has me releasing a
single khopesh. “Someone’s jumpy,” he taunts.
“Who sent you?” I demand. He laughs in response, blood coating
the hue of his teeth a ghastly crimson.
“Oh, you can do better than that, Talanichi. Ask what you’ve really
been wondering about, it’s not like they’ll understand,” he urges with the
lift of his brown, the twitch of his mouth. The bastard’s goading me, but I
can’t seem to resist playing right into it.
“How do you know that name?” I ask quietly in case a real
interpreter has been summoned.
“The Mother knows all.”
“Enough about your fucking Mother!” I shove my blade against the
flesh of his throat. At this range, I can admire his guise up close. His black
locks are longer than expected, hanging clear past his shoulders, the tips
fading into the same golden tint as Roman’s. His teeth are rotted away, the
edges jagged and uneven.
“We can’t all be as breathtaking as the beautiful Ker.”
“Who sent you?” I press the blade deeper until I draw blood.
“There are many who wish to see Alpha Kaneous and his
descendants fall. We simply chose the one with the largest purse.” As the
last word falls, recognition takes hold.
“Alpha Kaneous?” I muse. Taking another look at his chained
figure I notice his scars, the mutilations covering his entire chest. Locating
his gaze, his smirk turns into a full-fledged grin.
“Clever one, aren’t you?” His movements are swift, his limbs
resilient as he tears free from the metal binding him to the wall. In a second
his fingers are wrapped around my throat, my feet lifted clear off the
ground. I thrust my blade through his abdomen, blood spouting in torrents,
but you’d think I barely scrapped him, the pain failing to register across his
determined features.
Yanking the blade free, I’m attempting another blow when his free
hand finds my wrist, his ensnaring grip twisting until I’m forced to release
my hold. His hands tighten simultaneously, the claw like nails digging into
the tender flesh. I scrape at the hold on my neck to no avail. I’m moments
from losing consciousness when an arrow flies across the dungeon. The
hand at my throat releases, seizing the arrow mid-flight, a mere inch from
his head.
Dropping to the floor, I use the distraction as means of retrieving
my blade, thrusting upward through his abdomen once again. This time
when he grips my throat, he sends me flying across the room, blade in hand.
My back, followed directly by my head, collides with the concrete wall.
The pain renders me immobile, uselessly strewn along the dungeon floor.
The hard bones beneath me prod against my side as I’m forced to watch the
fight take place without me.
Roman enters first, followed by the Alpha’s guards. I’m not
surprised when my Alala enters last. I knew that shot could’ve only
originated from Alek’s bow. The nameless prisoner fights through all seven
of them with ease before flying up the stairs. Roman rushes to my side as
the rest of the Pack follow the escapee.
“How bad is it? Can you move?” He gently takes my arm as I try to
rise, my body protesting each movement.
“I’ll live,” I mutter.
We cautiously make our way to the terrace, Roman’s arm bracing
from behind, anticipating a fall. Kane, Jakobian, and the Alpha’s sons are
all that remain in the dungeon, the other guards having been dispatched
after the fleeing assassin.
Alone with five Jakobian wolves.
“What did you learn from him?” Beta Jakobian demands, his tone
starker than usually.
“He’s escaped,” interrupts one of Kane’s guards.
“How the hell does one mercenary escape from the palace
grounds,” Roman barks.
“I want twenty of my best sent after him. And you better make
damn sure he comes back alive.” A direct command from the Alpha. “Did
he say anything of importance?” His question is directed at me, the
desperation in his words undignified for the Alpha of the realm.
“Yes,” I croak, my throat throbbing with each word, “but I’ll
disclose to you and you alone.”
“Conniving bitch!” Silas roars, lunging forward, but Roman has
him flat on his back before he can get far.
“Enough! Tell me what the Shade divulged.”
“I will speak to you and you alone. When it comes to Nicias, I
won’t take any chances. I won’t budge on this Kane.” As foolish as
challenging the Alpha might be, I refuse to relent.
After very little deliberation Kane concedes, dismissing our
audience. Roman and Nis leave without a complaint. Silas, of course,
disagrees, squabbling about the recklessness of leaving the Alpha alone
with the murderous Ker, but one harsh word from his father sends him on
his way. Jakobian is the last to leave, his scrutinizing gaze boring into my
temple. I can tell he wishes to stay, listen in on our conversation, but
decides to leave his brother and I be.
It’s Kane who speaks first. “So, Hypatia Madaeus. Have you
something to relate or are you merely plotting to slay me where I stand?”

OceanofPDF.com
 CHAPTER 34
I quickly arrange my features in what I hope passes for confusion,
discreetly wiping my slick palms against my skirt. His remark has my
stomach in knots until his grin appears, the remark clearly made in jest. The
sight is captivating, handsome in a way I hadn’t come to expect from the
Alpha of Lyca.
“Walk with me,” he orders. “This isn’t the place for such a
conversation.”
Leading me back down the corridor, we come across a darkened
alcove I hadn’t noticed on the way down. Hidden somewhere along the wall
must be a knob of some kind, for a second later a small rectangular section
of the rock gives way, leading into a finer lit hallway. The location is
unfamiliar, clearly an ancient section of the palace grounds.
We tread along in heavy silence until reaching a large arched
doorway. The inscription above the archway reads “Honor thy Gods. Obey
thy Ruler” in the Archaic Tongue. I’m curious if the Alpha understands the
words but I don’t bother asking. Unlatching the door and leading the way, I
follow him inside. I’m surprised when I find the inner chamber intimate and
inviting, a place where one might come seeking refuge to pass the time.
“My private sanctum,” he explains. “Very few know about this
place, even fewer have stepped inside.” Taking the worn seat behind the
desk, the surface cluttered and overrun by quills and parchment, he motions
me to the seat across. The privacy of our location allows me an intimate
look at the most powerful man in the Pack.
Though his resemblance to his elder brother is undeniable, they’re
beasts of a different breed, opposites in every way. While Jakobian is brass,
harsh, and ruthless to the core, the Alpha is stern but pleasant. I’ve yet to
witness him be overly cruel or intentionally malicious. His actions go
beyond the simple purpose of inflicting pain. As much as I despise him for
what happened in Nymphai and after the Playground, I can understand why
the people have followed him for so long. Kane is different from how I
imagined.
I almost regret having to kill him.
“Were there any other targets aside from Nicias?” I’m eager to
confirm my suspicions.
“No, there can’t have been. Each of the Shades headed in the same
direction, towards the same individual.” He pounds his finger on the desk
for emphasis.
“That’s what I thought. But they weren’t Shades,” I reveal moving
to stand, eager to put as much distance as I can between the two of us
before my treacherous feelings toward the Alpha grow out of hand.
“I don’t follow.”
“The one I interrogated, his scars were fresh. Not more than a few
months old. My best guess is they were meant to resemble Shades to throw
you off.”
“All scars are fresh at one point, that proves nothing,” he
counters, his tone skeptical but lacking a dismissal.
“When he mentioned you down in the dungeon, he referred to
you as ‘Alpha Kaneous.’ Shades don’t abide by Lycan Law or recognize
Pack Hierarchy. They’d never address you by your title.”
“Let’s say you’re right. If these men weren’t Shades, any idea
who they might be?” He begins pacing, his frustration lifting him from his
seat.
“These were Pack soldiers emulating Shades. His accent and
pronunciation point to Ressyx, but I’d guess that’s another misdirect. What
I can say for certain is that this was an inside job. And you can bet they’ll
be back. I’d stake my life on it.”
Rubbing his gruff raw, his fingers raking through the rough
stubble scoring to draw blood, he lets out a frustrated growl. The sound
reverberates along the chamber, but I’m not alarmed, his sentiments
mirroring my own.
Stalking towards the assortment of books lining the walls, he
admits defeatedly, “I always knew they’d come for me. Whether it be
foreign enemies or friendly fire, I knew my life was on the line. It just
comes with the territory of holding power.” Lingering near a particularly
shabby looking volume he confesses, “I just never considered the threat to
my family. After my wife was murdered, I swore to protect my sons from
all threats. Tonight, was the closest I’d ever come to failing.”
The honesty of his words is making me uncomfortable, like
eavesdropping on an intimate conversation. Seeing Kane this vulnerable is
reminiscent of another man I knew, a father who paid the ultimate price to
protect the ones he loved.
Facing me once again he states, “And if it weren’t for you, I
would’ve lost one of them. You protected him. You almost died defending
him. Why?”
“You’re not the only one who cares for him.”
“You barely know him.”
“I know him well enough,” I snap defensively.
“You started training him right in the beginning before you even
met him. Why bother when he was nothing to you?”
“I don’t take kindly to the battering of the weak. Your eldest is
completely unhinged, in case you haven’t noticed. I’ve met executioners
kinder than him. He genuinely enjoys inflicting pain, particularly when it’s
aimed at his brother. He would’ve killed Nicias one day. Still might.”
He scoffs, gifting me a sardonic smile. “Saving children, protecting
the weak, taking lashings that don’t belong to you. My brother wrote of you
often, boasting of your value and skills with a blade, but you’re not at all
how I pictured.” He admits this last part as he returns to his seat.
“I get that a lot. If there’s nothing else, I should get back.” Not too
keen on the direction this conversation might be heading, I rise from my
chair, starting towards the exit.
“You could’ve lied, about the translation. There are very few who
speak the Shadow Tongue. None of us would’ve been the wiser.”
“Maybe I am lying.” I don’t turn back.
“You’re not.”
After a moment’s pause, I decide again on honesty. “Had it not
concerned Nicias I might have.”
“Understandable.” As the following silence stretches on, I take a
single step toward the door before he speaks again. “The raid on Nymphai
was a mistake. The worst decision I’ve ever made as Alpha.” The words
pluck the drive right out of my legs, the fickle beasts going limp, leaving
me powerless. I sway slightly, quickly grabbing hold of the wall for
support. “I was younger, foolish. I accepted the word of my advisors even
when I knew they were wrong. So, when the day came to decide about the
future of your father’s territory, I said nothing. I sat back, letting the other
Beta’s decide and carry out the sentence.”
“Enough. Enough.” A plea.
“I am sorry,” he offers. “I can never take it back. Never make right
what has been done. But I truly am sorry.”
His latest admission has my tear ducts desiccating, my anger
sweltering just beneath the surface. Turning back to the Alpha I match his
gaze. The yammering fool’s prattling about how sorry he is, only adds fuel
to the already ragging inferno.
“I didn’t protect your son to garner an apology,” I growl, my anger
outweighing any sense of self-preservation. “Your words mean nothing.
Less than nothing. They won’t appease your guilt. You’re destined to live
with that blood on your hands for the rest of your days and no sullied
apology is ever going to change that.”
With that I bolt from the room, tearing down the dim corridors as
fast as my legs will carry. It’s a miracle I’m able to find my way
considering my state but soon I reach familiar territory. Having used the
deserted route to compose myself, I’m relaxed and collected by the time I
reach the now familiar foyer. The palace is humming with masked soldiers
and servants alike drifting about, unsure what to do with themselves. I’ve
lost track of the time since the fighting started, so I can’t be sure how near
the approaching dawn might be, though the dark sky suggests she’s still a
few hours out. My main concern is finding Roman but considering I haven’t
the faintest idea where he might be, I decide to wait out the night in his
chamber.
I do my best to ignore the reproachful glares as I trudge up to my
room for a fresh change of clothes, before heading back down. Even though
I expected as much, disappointment seizes me when I find Roman’s
chamber empty. Deciding a good scrubbing seems in order considering the
carnage I’m still sporting like a second skin, I fill the spacious sunken bath.
After a long hour and three separate soakings, I finally manage to rid the
gore from my body.
After drying and changing into one of Roman’s sleeveless tunics, I
head out onto the balcony. They sky has changed, the faintest shred of light
just peeking over the horizon. Roman has yet to return so I make myself at
home in one of the plush armchairs out on the terrace. My muscles unwind
instantly, my body sore and depleted from the day’s events, but I have
trouble relaxing. My mind jumps from memory to memory, carefully
picking apart each detail to find anything I might’ve missed. I’m anxious to
find Eon and divulge the latest developments, but I can’t risk being caught.
While devising my plan for the following day, I find myself dozing off, the
panicked buzzing below gently lulling me to sleep.
Roman’s voice wakes me a few hours later, the dawn having fully
broken sometime during my slumber, my name spouting frantically from
his lips.
“Out here.” A low croak the most I can manage. My limbs bark out
in protest as I rise from my chair. At first sight of him relief washes over
me, mollifying the disquiet I failed to notice had taken root.
“Are you alright?” he asks, stopping a few feet away as if
frightened he might accidently break me. I can see his eyes racking over my
form, his gaze hardening after contact with each new injury.
“Nothing serious, I promise. How’s Nis?”
“Apart from a few earned bruises, he’ll be fine,” he divulges with a
tight smile. “He fought well.” I take that as a compliment.
“As did you,” I get out before being roughly pulled into his arms.
His chest rest flush with my cheek, the scent of sweat and death still
clinging to the air around him, but I don’t relinquish my hold. This is the
first time Roman has ever initiated any sort or physical contact that wasn’t
tinged in violence.
“Kane’s ordered an assembly in the Full Moon Hall to address what
happened.” I watch him cautiously as he steps back a few paces, effectively
ending our embrace. “I guess there are very few Jakobian’s you trust
completely.” Though his tone is light, teasing almost, I can see the hurt
written across his features.
“You and I both know there’s only one Jakobian I trust completely.”
The words have the desired effect, his expression softening a tad. “I’m
sorry. I wanted you to stay but Silas was already pissy enough, I didn’t feel
like dealing with him. I planned on relaying everything afterward,” I admit
earnestly.
After repeating the same information I’d disclosed to Kane, minus
mention of the mysterious Mother, he adds, “The way they moved, like
shadows swimming through darkness, I truly believed them to be Shades.
Anything else?”
I’m tempted to explain the rest, the intel about the Mother and her
acolytes, but I can’t. I may trust my CO with my life, but I can’t risk Eon.
“No, nothing.” Lie.
“We better get down there,” he urges. “It’s time.”

OceanofPDF.com
 CHAPTER 35
Following a quick wash and swap of clothes, Roman and I make our way to
the Full Moon Hall. The outside crowd has dissipated, the servants going
about their usual activities, the soldiers most likely in route to the Alpha’s
assembly. I keep an eye out for Absinthe or Milos but come up empty.
Roman assured me they survived the evening but I’m still anxious to see
them. He also confirmed Alek’s wellbeing and though I’m relieved, I can’t
say I’m too eager to set eyes on my Alala.
As we breach the chamber entrance, I spot Milos standing among
the other Dire near the foot of the dais. Slipping my hand into Roman’s, the
gesture as natural as breathing, I tug him in their direction. The gathering
crowd rifts allowing us passage, all eyes in attendance fixed in our
direction. I attempt to release his hand, but he only strengthens his hold.
Absinthe’s voice is the first to greet us when we reach the Kruans, Alek
standing directly beside her.
“Look at that beauty.” She gestures towards my neck.
“It feels worse.” A toss out a sly grin for good measure.
“Glad to see you’re still breathing. Thought I might have to find a
new sparring partner.”
“Afraid you won’t be getting rid of me that easily.”
“That’s too bad, I was…” She’s cut off mid-sentence by the
foulest looking Dire, the time spent in Tairheia having done nothing for his
skeletal appearance.
“Your presence is required up top,” Sare sneers. “You and your
beloved,” he adds, nodding to where my hand is still linked with Roman’s.
Based on the murderous glare, I’d guess Alek really loved that comment.
“We’ll be right up. You’re dismissed,” Roman barks. Sare’s
returning glare could rival Alek’s, the expression stony and elated in equal
measure. Roman smoothly releases my hand, moving his own to the small
of my back, gently coaxing me through the crowd.
An odd sense of remembrance sets in as I watch Sare disappear
among the bodies. I’ve been here before, standing beside a different Dire as
the gauntly commander summons me. The first time I wasn’t sure what I’d
be walking into, the outcome far worse than I could’ve imagined, but this
time around I hope it’s a similar task that awaits me.
I owe that lion eyed prick a red smile.
“Do you think they caught him?” Sensing my mood, the barbarous
hunger I’m usually ashamed of, Roman begins stroking his thumb along my
lower back, the trivial contact soothing.
“I doubt it. You would be interrogating him if they had.”
“Unless they want him dealt with immediately and in public,” I
counter. “Maybe I’m wanted for his execution.”
“Then you’ll have to fight me for it.” His tone could slice steel.
“That bastard’s mine.”
With no glowing eyed assassins in sight, we’re both disappointed
upon reaching the Alpha and his two heirs. The three are seated in the same
positions they were the first time I beheld them, with Jakobian lingering
near the dais edge in the middle of a heated discussion with Spyridon. I
can’t make out their words, but the deadly glare on the Beta’s face suggest
he’s furious.
Noticing my presence, he turns the full force of his fury my
direction. Roman, catching sight of Jakobian’s little tirade, steers us clear of
the Beta’s direct line of fire. As we wait near the opposite end of the dais,
Nicias abandons his throne to take a place at my side. It isn’t long before
Kane rises as well, taking center stage to address the gathered Pack.
“As you all know, the Pack was threatened this evening.” He
suspends his speech, gathering the reactions from the crowd. I realize he’s
studying them, trying to locate the false wolf among the horde. “An assault
took place this evening during our sacred Masque. An assassination attempt
on one of my sons. I’m satisfied to announce their mission was a failure.
Each of the assailants headed down the River Styx as we speak, thanks to
our wolves of Krua.” The crowd answers with fervor, the earsplitting
ovations and hails thundering across the stretch of the chamber. I keep my
expression blank, unreadable, unsure where the Alpha is going with his
speech. “Those filthy Shades thought they’d come into our territory and
destroy what we’ve built!”
 “What’s he playing at?” Roman whispers.
“But Lyca doesn’t bend to the wills of treacherous snakes. We rise
to eradicate those who stand against us. We will purge the treachery from
each territory across Lyca until the loyal are all who remain. No one attacks
my son and remains among the living!”
To the gathered soldiers, his words serve as the spark igniting the
flames of revenge smoldering in each of them. But it isn’t difficult to
discern their true meaning. This is a warning, a threat to the party
responsible for tonight’s attack.
I don’t know who you are, he says, but I’m coming for you.
I admire his valor, his audacity to face the monsters lying in wait,
though I’m still not sure what he has planned for me. My uncertainty is
short-lived as he continues his rage fueled proclamation.
“As you all know the Clash of Fangs is slated for the subsequent
dawn. And as is customary, a combatant must be named representing each
territory.” The news has the crowd going berserk, the wolves worked into a
frenzied, practically foaming at the mouth. “It is my great honor to
announce, fighting on behalf of the Alpha and his territory, Hypatia
Madaeus, Ker of Krua and newly appointed Guardian of the Pack.”
A tremor of surprise sweeps through the crowd, disbelief overriding
any other sentiment. I sense Roman take step closer, our forearms brushing.
Turning, I find my CO tense, the muscles of his neck strained and corded. If
I was nervous before, one glance at him further cements my unease.
“We will convene again this evening for the Blood Pledge, where
we will announce the other territories combatants for the Clash.
Dismissed.”
While the stunned crowd disperses, I follow my companions from
the dais up to the Hollow. Roman doesn’t stray far from my side during the
walk, always keeping his sword within arm’s reach. You’d think we were
being led to the torturers lair the atmosphere is so taut. Everyone, aside
from Kane, wary and on edge.
As soon as the door clicks shut behind us, it’s Silas’s grating voice
that welcomes us. “Have you gone mad? Lost your fucking mind? You can’t
have chosen her as Tairheia’s combatant,” he seethes. “She’s traitorous
filth!”
None of the other’s present say a word, allowing the father and son
to continue their debate. Jakobian is deviously pensive, keeping to the
corner of the room lost in thought.
“It should’ve been Otus! He’s the best suited…”
“He’s a bureaucrat, not a warrior. If I needed someone to lead long
arduous meetings, I would’ve selected him.”
“And what’s this business about Guardian of the Pack?” Silas adds,
fuming.
“The Alpha’s combatant has been decided. I won’t hear of it again.
Now leave. Give my combatant and I a moment alone.”
The others file out, though I’m sure Roman won’t have ventured
far. I can’t make myself look at Jakobian but turning to Nis, he offers me a
knowing grin before exiting the chamber.
As the last file out, Kane starts. “I want you to fight for Tairheia in
the Clash. After you’re named victorious, I can formally present you as the
new Guardian of Lyca. You’ll be able to live out the remainder of your days
here in the capitol. You’ll never be asked to take another life again.”
I say nothing for a few moments, the sudden proclamation having
robbed my ability to speak. Living in Tairheia, no longer Jakobian’s
personal executioner. The notion’s appealing, but I have too much waiting
for me back in Krua. “I can’t.”
“Your sister will be brought to the capitol as well. I’m told she
studies elixirs. Krua isn’t the only territory with florae.”
I search his face for any sign of malice or deceit, coming up empty.
He’s being honest, whether it be fueled by guilt or kindness, the Alpha of
Lyca is offering me an escape without shedding a single drop of blood.
The desire to agree is overwhelming, the acquiescing words at the
tip of my tongue. This could be my best chance at securing Iren’s freedom.
The offer mirrors the other on the table, the one made by a different
Jakobian brother.
Kill Kane?
Serve Kane?
For once, the right decision isn’t clear. I don’t know which
Jakobian I should put my trust in, gods know they’ve both brought nothing
put pain and suffering into my life. Needing more time to deliberate, I try
my hand at stalling.
“I’ll fight for you in the Clash tomorrow. If I win you can proclaim
me as Guardian, but we keep this between us until then.”
“Agreed,” he says after a moment’s pause. “You’re free to spend
the day as you please until the toasting this evening.”
Heading towards the door, I voice one last query. “Why name me
Guardian?”
“Should my own voyage down the River come sooner than desired,
I can’t think of another I trust more to protect my son,” he replies to my
back.
Pushing through the chamber door, I almost crash into Roman.
“How did it go?”
“Fine.” I make to move around him. “I’m going into the agora for
the day.”
Blocking my path, he asks, “Anything interesting you care to
share?”
“You’re looking at the newly appointed combatant of Tairheia,” I
declare with an exaggerated bow. “Not interesting enough for you?”
His countering expression is teeming with alarm, you’d think I just
announced my plans to venture into the Underworld. “I’ll reason with him.
My uncle’s a sensible man, I’ll convince him to reconsider.”
“Why would you do that?”
Outraged, he booms in a spit of rage. “You shouldn’t have to fight
Peia. Not for Lyca and certainly not for him. It won’t be like fighting in the
Loft or even the Playground. The Clash is much worse. These will be the
greatest warriors from across the realm and they’ll be targeting you.”
“I feel like we’ve had this conversation before,” I tease in mock
consideration.
He racks his hands through his hair, clearly unamused. “Peia…”
“Roman.” I cut him off. “You can’t always protect me. I need to
fight on my own.” Taking his hand in mine, I add, “I was trained by the
best. Now, let’s see if I can be the best.”
I know my plea has swayed him when he offers me a relenting nod.
We travel back to the foyer, the quiet clogged with angst. When we reach
the main doors, he barks out an order about not wondering too far. I quickly
agree, eager to get a move on, though I have every intention of disobeying.
With a knowing look he stalks off, leaving me to my achingly familiar task.
Tracking down my little brother.

OceanofPDF.com
 CHAPTER 36
It takes me an hour to lose my tail, the stubborn bastard refusing to take the
hint. After milling about for a few miles, slinking through the humming
crowd, I finally become desperate enough to venture into one of the dock
brothels. I choose the largest, seeking shelter near one of the vacant cots,
holing up until I’m certain I’ve lost the dogged Dire. Which Jakobian male
wanted to keep an eye on me, I haven’t a clue, but I can’t chance it either
way.
After doubling back, I carefully make my way to the rooftop
rendezvous where our first encounter took place. I’m only mildly
disappointed to discover the roof empty, knowing it was a long shot. I
decide to keep to the rooftops, hoping to uncover any indication of where
Eon might be.
Searching for my brother is like wandering blindly through
darkness, using your limbs to guide you when your sight has failed. It’s
suffocating, the hopeless sensation drawing the air from my lungs.
With the sun now crowing and the salty testimony of my pursuit
harshly stinging my eyes, I retreat to the original rooftop. Combing through
each crevice, overturning every stone, I’m once again left empty.
Discouraged, I abandon my pursuit.
I’d be easier locating snow on the sun.
Trudging back through the agora, I take no mind of the people
around as it no longer matters whether my tail catches up with me.
Famished, I direct my attention to one of the food vendors. The nutty aroma
of fresh honeyed rolls tempts me, drawing me closer. I’m about to inquire
about the price when a sweaty, shirtless figure crashes into me.
“Forgive me, beautiful one. I seem to have lost track of the path.”
Craning my neck, my attentions drawn to the rich chocolate of his eyes,
only a slight shade darker than the tint of his skin. His plump lips are
pressed into a sly smile, a cunning gaze dedicated my direction. His black
hair is braided, the vines assembled in a disarray atop his head, a matching
scruff running along his cheeks from hairline to chiseled jaw. He’s shirtless,
his form slick with sweat, the muscular display chiseled from marble. He’s
gorgeous. And based on how hard I’m staring, I’m surprised I haven’t
started to drool.
“It’s fine,” I reply, forcing myself to look away. Returning my
attention to the vendor, I begin my second attempt at purchasing fare when
a firm grip on my arm has me reaching over my shoulder. Gorgeous or not,
he’ll still lose a hand.
“Easy there, Tala,” he chirps, his tone spiked with implication. “No
need for those. I’ve been told you could help me find my path.”
New to the whole shadowy talking in codes nonsense, it takes me a
moment to grasp the veiled meaning behind his words.
Tala. Talanichi.
The Pathfinder.
“Where is it you seek direction to?” I ask coolly.
His smile widens, pleased by my willingness to play. “The hat
maker, the man with an affinity for reptiles.” With this he laughs, a throaty
cackle that has me inching for my blade.
His description has me stumped, baffled into motionlessness as if
seized by Medusa. Amused, he brings his lips to my ear, his nose gently
grazing my jawline. “This is disappointing, Talanichi,” he tuts. “Surely you
can do better than this.” Chuckling, he disappears into the crowd, leaving
me to my cryptic message. It’s almost embarrassing how long it takes me to
decipher.
Hat maker with an affinity for reptiles.
Gecko Man’s Hat.
Ignoring the urge to berate myself, I take off towards the northern
cliffs. Although the safest route across is through the docks, I haven’t the
time for the lengthy trek down. Darting through the underbrush, the dry
leaves clawing away at my stained flesh, I hurry towards the cliffs edge. As
the land’s rim comes into view, I brace myself, sprinting the last of the way
before I lose my nerve. In a few short strides I’m at the brink, flinging
myself into the void.
The drop is eternal, my crystal platform drawing closer with each
passing second. I keep my legs locked tight, my arms gripping my blades,
as I brace for impact.
The collision is strenuous but bearable, the saline water lodged up
my nose the biggest hindrance. My boots are hefty, weighing me down,
threatening to drown me, but I keep moving. It doesn’t take long to reach
the renowned landmass, the island seemingly vacant at this hour.
Exasperated by the clandestine nature of our meeting, I call out,
shrieking in the most unflattering of manner. “You little shit! Where are
you?” I croak, my throat burning with brine. My howls are met by familiar
laughter.
“That was quite the display,” remarks the shirtless stranger from the
agora, his hands clapping in mock admiration. His pants are soaked, his
bare chest glistening with water. I grunt out my frustration when I notice
my little brother at his side.
“How did you beat me over here?”
“I swam faster.”
“Who the hell is this guy?” I bark at Eon.
“Bakari, Eumaeus’s eldest. You can trust him,” he affirms, his arms
enfolding me in his embrace. “I heard about the Masque. Are you alright?”
“Fine,” I state, shrugging him off. “They were acolytes of the
Mother. Powerful acolytes. I’d never fought opponents like those before.”
After exchanging a glance with Bakari, Eon says, “We suspected as
much. Have you had any luck with the translation?” Noticing my
reluctance, he repeats, “You can trust him.”
“It’s not perfect but from what I could decode, it’s something along
the lines of ‘Mother of Mountains, She will raise us.’”
“Mother of Mountains? Doesn’t sound very menacing,” Bakari
snorts. “And what do they mean by ‘raise us,’ make em taller?”
Eon remains silent, his look pensive.
“Maybe symbolically raise them, who knows. Don’t forget they’re
fanatics. They could believe she’ll gift them with wings for all we know.”
“But who is she? Why follow her?” Eon muses.
“No idea, but I should be getting back.”
“That’s right. Big fight tomorrow.” Bakari’s words lined with
accusation.
“How the hell do you two know everything?”
“I told you, Pei. Eumaeus has ears all over the capitol. Are you
really fighting in the Clash?” His question begging to be disproven.
“It’s a long story.” Not fully trusting our new companion, I don’t go
into further detail. Though I came here seeking Eon’s stance on Kane’s
offer, I’ll have to figure it out on my own. Pulling Eon to the side, I explain
in hush tones, “Whatever happens tomorrow, I’m getting Iren out of Krua.
I’ll do everything I can to get her into the Zalamendies, so I need you to be
ready. Can you do that?”
“Of course. I’ll leave the day after the Clash. Bakari can stay in my
place. But what about you?”
“I’ll be there with her,” I manage to get out in a nice, even tone.
“You can’t lie to me, Tala. I know you too well for that. Tell me
what’s going on, I can help,” my little brother urges.
Tempted to divulge my plan, I bring him in for a tight squeeze
instead. “It’s nothing I can’t handle. But should something go wrong, she
dwells in the Den with Niobe, Krua’s Second.”
“Understood.” The lack of emotion in his voice swells me with
pride.
“I love you, you little shit.”
Laughing, he snorts. “Good luck tomorrow, Peia. Make it out
alive.”
“I will. I promise.” Lying comes way too naturally nowadays.
“If it means anything, I hope you survive as well,” Bakari calls out
with a wicked grin. “We haven’t had a chance to get properly acquainted.”
Flipping him that hand gesture I’ve come to perfect, I hug Eon a
final time and start off towards the island’s edge. The encounter may not
have gone as planned, but I’m thankful for having seen Eon one last time.
Wading through the sound, it takes me twice as long to make it to
shore. During the swim, I come to my decision regarding Kane’s offer and
Jakobian’s task. Accepting my fate, my plan cementing at last in my mind, a
final loose end requires a quick errand back into the agora. By the time I
reach the palace, the sun has already begun its dive below the horizon. Safe
to say, I’m not at all surprised by the surly greeting I’m met with in the
grand foyer.
“Why are you wet?” Roman asks, throwing up a hand. “And why
are your fingers stained purple? Never mind,” he exclaims in exasperation,
“I don’t want to know. Get upstairs and get changed. The toasting is set to
commence any minute now.”
 Dashing to my tower, I’m back downstairs, dried and changed,
before he has a chance to curse the day I was born. The Full Moon Hall is in
an uproar, the bloodthirsty crowd waiting to be addressed by the Alpha.
Roman guides us along towards the dais, clearly familiar with the Blood
Pledge ceremony.
As we near the platform, I notice the usually dual thrones
surrounding the Alpha’s have been replaced by four new ones, two on each
side. Kane is at his place in the center, the seats on his right occupied by his
brother and Beta Evander. Beta Romulus is seated to Kane’s left, Beta
Ophira in the seat beside him. Near the rear of the dais rest a long wooden
table teeming with every type of spirit. Five large chalices are on display at
the head of the table, each engraved with their individual territory sigil.
Roman and I take a spot along the wall below the platform, my
jumpy fingers mangling the sides of my pants as we wait for the ceremony
to begin. Other Dire from Krua make their way towards us, Zale taking the
spot opposite Roman. I see Milos and Absinthe as well, both looking
nervous. My Alala is nowhere to be found.
“Wolves of Lyca!” Kane bellows, working the soldiers into a louder
uproar. “Let us commence with the Blood Pledge. As the Alpha capitol,
Tairheia will start.” Stepping to the foot of the dais, an elegantly curved
dagger seized in his grasp, he summons me. “Hypatia Madaeus.”
My name rings out through the rifts in the crowd, each wolf having
fell silent to bear witness. Roman gently bumps my shoulder, silently
nudging me forward. Relenting, I make quick work of the trek up and take
the spot to Kane’s right. Holding his hand out before the crowd, the sharp
blade clutched tightly in his left palm, he begins.
“On behalf of Tairheia, I, Alpha Kaneous Jakobian, name Hypatia
Madaeus the anointed combatant for the Clash.” Slicing the blade across his
right palm, he fists his wounded hand, the escaping crimson coursing down
his arm, plummeting to the stone below. Handing the dagger to me, he asks,
“Do you accept?”
Without a word, I accept the outstretched dagger and replicate his
actions. I grunt out in pain but allow the blood to fall, the droplets splaying
the puddle he created. I turn away from his responding smile, the
expression flowing with what I assume to be pride.
“Now for the toast,” he boasts, initiating the sole part of the
ceremony I’m familiar with. “Go pick your poison.”
 Approaching the table, I select Tairheia’s chalice and fill it to the
brim with the rich, grape imbued tsipouro, the spirit as strong as they come.
Returning to my place, Kane signals for me to take the first sip. Bringing
the cool metal to my lips, carefully holding the chalice by its stem, I take a
deep swig of the liquid, the sharp substance searing its way down. Raising
the drink in tribute, my fingers carefully gripping along the rim, I hand it
over to Kane. After taking his own sip, he returns to his seat with the
chalice as I retreat to the side.
The toasting draws on with each Beta reiterating the same repetitive
declaration until the only combatant left to be named is Krua’s. Jakobian’s
smarmy gaze floats my way, a twisted smile deforming his handsome face
as he begins his naming.
“On behalf of Krua, I, Beta Marxus Jakobian, name Grey
Commander Roman Jakobian the anointed combatant for the Clash.” I
couldn’t care less about Jakobian’s motives behind the selection, the
calculating bastard can play his little games, but I can’t think of a situation
more harrowing than facing off against my CO.
The sight of fresh blood spouting from Roman’s palm unsettles me.
I don’t know how I’m supposed to fight in the Clash when all I care about
now is making sure Roman survives the battle. I know the Clash isn’t meant
to end in fatalities, but when all hell breaks loose tomorrow, keeping him
alive will be my main priority.
When the Blood Pledge is completed, I try to catch Roman’s eye to
gauge his reaction, but he ignores me, purposely keeping his gaze trained
on the exit. The second Kane dismisses the crowd my CO is off, scurrying
his way through the masses. I don’t make it two steps after him when a tug
at my braid keeps me in place.
“I’d steer clear of that one this evening,” chimes Jakobian, nodding
towards his son. “You two being adversaries and all.”
“He may have been spawned from the daemon wolf, but I’d never
consider him an adversary.”
“Interesting. We’ll have to see if my son shares your sentiment.”
Crowding too close for comfort, he adds under his breath, “Your partaking
in the Clash makes me curious. You haven’t forgotten what’s at stake, have
you?”
Matching his audacity, closing the gap even further, I carefully
articulate each word. “I haven’t forgotten.”
 “Good.” The bastard winks. “I’d hate to see you lose the game
when you’re so close to winning.”
I almost kill him right there.
But being the loyal Ker that I am, I bite my tongue. My teeth gnaw
away at the innards of my cheek, the tangy metallic taste I’ve become well
acquainted with coating the inside of my mouth. His eyes narrow just a
fraction, the predatory appetite lingering just beneath the surface, his
nostrils flaring as if he caught scent of the blood. Bowing mockingly at the
waist, he strides off, leaving me to my thoughts in the now empty chamber.
I take my time trudging upstairs, opting to spend the evening alone.
The hallway is dark as pitch, only a single candle radiating any glow. I’m
wrapped up in scenes of dead wolves and fail to notice the figure seated at
the foot of my door until I’m all but tripping over him.
“I knew you were pissed, I just never pegged you for a ‘trample
him to death’ kind of girl.” Peering down at my Alala, I notice his
customary swagger has been swapped for a tentative smile. His nervous
gaze bores into mine, searching, soliciting for forgiveness and despite my
fears, I laugh, the sound carefree.
“Don’t worry. I’ve got something much worse planned for you.”
Taking the seat beside him, I bring my knees to my chest, engulfing them
with my arms. I lay my head atop them, gazing musingly at the man sitting
beside me.
“I wasn’t sure you’d come up here tonight.” I don’t miss the way
he diverts his gaze as he says this.
“I craved the solace an empty chamber brings.”
“Somethings never change,” he smirks. Gathering his breath, he
starts, “I’m sorry, Pei. I never…”
“Stop,” I say reaching out, clasping his hand in mine. “There’s no
need, not between us. You’re not just anyone, Alek. You’re my Alala. I
know what that means. You vowed to deliver my killing blow should the
Fates call for it. A few lashings mean nothing.” Giving a gentle squeeze, I
add, “Word of advice, I’d avoid Ajax if I were you. He’s probably not your
biggest fan at the moment.”
“I’ll take that under advisement.”
“Do you want to get a drink?” A night alone seemed ideal but a
drink with Alek seems better.
“Always,” he vows, “but I have some business to take care of. I just
wanted to apologize and wish you luck for tomorrow.”
His free hand comes to rest on my face, his thumb stroking my
lower lip, seeking permission, absolution, and I concede. Our breaths
mingle, merging as one as I fuse our lips together. I moan in gratitude; he
grunts in fulfilment. My prodding tongue has just managed its feat, slipping
its way between his lips, when he pulls away.
“If we continue, I’ll never find the will to stop,” he breaths, his lips
swollen and tempting.
“I don’t remember mentioning anything about stopping,” I purr
shamelessly.
“Wretched tease,” he answers, rising to his feet.
“Only to you,” I call out after him, his figure retreating down the
hall.
Tossing me a rude gesture over his shoulder, my roaring laughter
accompanies Alek down the cold stone staircase. My eyes keep after him,
guarding him, revering him, as far as my gaze will reach.
My chamber is dark, the bed bitter and lonely, as I prepare to
weather the storm of nightmares headed my way.

OceanofPDF.com
 CHAPTER 37
The morning dawn breaks, bringing guilt and uncertainty along with it. I
managed about an hour of sleep in total, the rest of the time spent tossing
and turning. Recollections of past atrocities, most committed by my own
stained hands, hounded my dreams, tormenting me into submission. I wake
more anguished than ever before.
Two brothers. Two proposals. One choice.
Kill the Alpha or conquer the Clash.
Plagued by fear, pestered by shame, though it doesn’t matter, I’ve
already made my choice.
An incessant pounding at the door hails me from my inner
harangue. Having a feeling it might be a certain Grey Commander, I bolt for
the door half-naked. I make no attempts to hide my disappointment as
Signy trots through the door, a large parcel in hand. Clio follows silently
behind her with a stockpiled tray of food clutched between her arms.
“What happened to you? You look like death had his way with
you twice,” Signy greets. Refined lady that I am, I toss a boot at her. “Ay,
none of that. I come bearing gifts.”
Handing over the parcel, I make quick work of the wrapping,
unveiling a newly shined, silver breastplate, the Alpha’s sigil engraved into
its front. “Thank you.” Though the breastplate is far too large for my build,
I can always shed it once the Clash has commenced.
“I’m rooting for you girl. Make Tairheia proud,” she beams before
heading out the door. Clio hastily sets the tray down on the bed, the juice
sloshing over the carafe and onto the duvet. She wrings her hands
awkwardly. I wait for her to say something, but she never does, a closed
lipped smile the only indication of her favoring.
Against my body’s protests, I force as much food down as I can. I
slip into one of my leather uniforms, lacing up my boots as securely as
possible, securely fastening my new breastplate in place. I delicately braid
my hair in two, making sure the strands are firmly tied off. To conclude, I
slide my gifted dagger in the crook of my boot, slinging my double sheath
of freshly sharpened blades over my shoulder.
Clad in leather, skin stained black with ink, the Ker is ready for
battle.
The Clash doesn’t begin for another hour at least, but I’m too on
edge to just sit idle. With one last matter to take care of, I decide to make a
trip down to the library. Since the night of the Masque, I haven’t been able
to shake the feeling that threats from the Mother have only just begun. And
with the translation only partially accurate, we’ll be sitting ducks if we
aren’t accurately informed.
Unfortunately, the missions short-lived.
“Morning my little death monger,” Neoma chirps as I pass her in
the hall. She’s clad in her usual conservative attire, though the neck of her
collar has been loosened, the large pendant almost visible just beneath the
lace. She’s allotted her hair free reign, the dark locks cascading wildly
down past her shoulders.
“I was just on my way to your library.”
“Sorry, love. It’s locked up tight. Didn’t picture anyone visiting on
Clash Day.” Her friendly smile shifts slightly, her nostrils flaring, inhaling
deeply with an almost euphoric expression. “I knew you’d be the one, little
wolf” she says, pressing a kiss to my forehead. “I always knew. Do the Pack
proud today.” With a new spring to her step, she goes bounding up the
stairs.
Odd as Neoma and her exchanges might be, I consider her an ally.
Now deterred and out of place, I haul myself down the boat path,
wad of nerves in tow. I pass the battleground from a few nights back, the
carnage long since cleared away. With all that’s happened during the Trek,
my last evening in Krua feels like another lifetime ago, the night with my
sister a far-off memory.
Taking a seat on the top step, the majestic waves crashing below, I
allow my mind to wander back home to her while I await whatever destiny
the Fates have in store. The memory’s fleeting, but the warmth it delivers is
precious.
I keep it with me.
A short hour later, I decide to get going. Every Clash is held in the
Playground, the very arena that almost cost me my life. Near the palace
courtyard I run into Nis, the young man out of breath and panicky.
“There you are!” he yells across the dirt.
“What’s wrong?”
“Roman sent me. I’ve been looking for you for ages. The
combatants were supposed to be at the Playground an hour ago.”
“Shit.”
Towed by the arm like an insolent child, Nicias leads me through
the agora. I know the route to the Playground, but I let him guide me. Since
most of the public are already flocking to the arena, the streets are barren
apart from the shopkeepers and destitute. We enter the Playground from a
service entrance to avoid the crowd. He steers me toward the ground floor
where the other soldiers are waiting. Donning a similar breastplate, I notice
Roman immediately. He’s garbed in his usual leather uniform, his double-
edged blade hung securely down his spine. His golden scruff has grown
along with the spikey locks tousled atop his head. The minute Roman sets
eyes on me he’s at my side.
“Thanks, Nicias,” he exhales.
“Of course. Be careful out there, both of you. Good luck.” A few
seconds later he’s rushing from the room, taking the stairwell up to the
seating above.
“Listen,” Roman urges when Nicias is out of sight, “you need to
engage the soldier of Ressyx at the start of the Clash.” He nods towards the
opposite end of the room where the others are mulling about impatiently.
“Why, because she’s the only other female? I resent that.” I cross
my arms like the petulant woman I am.
“Resent it all you want. Hell, fucking rip me a new one if you’d
like. But right now, we need to focus on staying alive.”
“Why are you so tense? This isn’t a death match.”
“Peia.” A tone I haven’t heard before. “You’ve never been to a
Clash, never witnessed the barbarity of it. Yes, it’s supposed to be a
moderated exhibition of power, but you must understand, these wolves are
out for blood. They’ve sat idle for weeks, traveling, reveling in the Trek
gaiety. They’re like the lions of the old games, starved beforehand so when
they finally enter the arena against their adversary, they’re ravenous, mad
with bloodlust. These soldiers haven’t taken life in weeks. They’ll be
aiming for a kill.” When it’s clear I’ve understood, he continues. “You’re
the fastest, take on the soldier from Ressyx. I’ll engage the others until you
can lend a hand.”
“Alright.”
“Alright.” He sounds relieved. “Get ready. It’s almost time.”
He’s not exaggerating.
Two minutes later the heralding horns are summoning us to the
gates. The Playground has been adorned for the occasion with banners
festooned along the arena walls. The sigils of each territory are on proud
display, situated on spikes around the arena in relation to their locations
across Tairheia. One by one we’re summoned, the Kruan combatant
introduced first. As expected, my name is called last.
As I step out into the blistering sun, I keep my tread steady, and my
gaze fixed. I ignore the crowd clamoring around me, choosing to focus on
the pair of gentle olive eyes staring from beneath the Kruan banner. The dirt
flies up around my boots, the dust clouds trailing at my back. Taking my
place in the center of the arena, I’m careful to keep my expression neutral
as I gauge out today’s competition.
As Nymphai’s combatant, Javan’s looking as brutal as ever. His
frosty hair has been gathered and fastened at the nape of his neck, his long
blade hanging securely at his side. My old sigil rests engraved on his
breastplate, taunting me with days past. Even from this distance his smile is
horrid, the promise of agony reflected in the expression. As terrible as he
may be, he isn’t the greatest threat I’ll be facing today.
Lazyra, the opponent Roman has assigned me, is a slender girl,
leanly built, and more at ease than any other soldier in this arena. Her dark
hair is cropped short, the wispy ends falling just above the brow. Her
chestnut skin is stretched tightly over her cheeks, the bones below guarding
a secret she dares not share. Her hazel gaze, cold and unfeeling, regards me
intently with a cool look of indifference, the same manner she’d regard any
foe. Her look is calculating, most likely assessing the threat level of each
opponent. With a haladie gripped firmly in her right hand, the double
daggers clawing out each end of the hilt, I’d never be reckless enough to
give her my back.
This is a soldier that has seen battle, fought death, and walked away
unscathed. She’s small in stature but you’d be a fool to dismiss her. She’s a
threat of a different caliber, a poisonous apricot plucked from a seemingly
harmless grove. Her kill count could number in the thousands, but you’d
never know it seeing as her Beta had the good sense to keep her talents
hidden away as opposed to tallied in ink along her skin.
The final soldier is Jomunrek of Bezarus. A beast in man’s clothing.
Pit him against the Manticore and I’d bet every drachma I had on the
soldier. His honey hair is slicked back, the oily clumps matted and fastened
in a knot at the back of his head. The pepper flecked beard he’s donning is
long, the bushy hair scrapping below the collarbone. His arms are massive,
the rippling muscles unclothed and on display, so large I doubt I could even
wrap my hands around the damn things. But as ripped as he might be, it
isn’t his physique that’s most daunting. It’s the sight of the Wolf Claws
wrapped around his knuckles.
The unique steel weapons are constructed to resemble a beast’s
claws, with sharp spikes protruding out over the warrior’s knuckles. The
weapons are attached through small rings that loop around each finger.
These weapons are rare, difficult to make, and even harder to wield.
They’re rarely seen in long range warfare, but they’re perfect for the melee
combat of the Clash.
The blowing of the salphix hails my gaze towards the Podium,
where the rulers of Lyca are waiting, each Beta seated in the same
arrangement as the night before. I catch Jakobian’s eye immediately.
Though I can’t make him out clearly, it’s obvious he’s shooting daggers my
way. Ignoring the fickle bastard, I turn to Nis, the young wolf stiff and
stewing in his own anguish. I offer subtle thumbs-up, the exchange cut short
by his father’s thundering voice.
“The culmination of the Trek is among us, the time for…” His
words interrupted by a fit of coughing. After a moment, he continues. “The
time for debauchery is coming to end,” he announces, his words inciting the
masses. “With a final tribute to our forebear, we shall bear witness the finest
warriors Lyca has to offer and see who among them is named victorious. It
is time once again to determine which territory is in fact the fiercest of the
Pack.” The response from the crowd is stentorian, the ground pulsating
beneath our feet, drowning out a second coughing fit. “In the name of
Lycaon, may the Clash of Fangs commence.”
The last word has yet to fully cross the Alpha’s lips when Lazyra
charges for me, a loud cry echoing through the Playground. I have just
enough time to unleash a blade, deflecting the strike a mere hairs width
from my face. It’s clear from the volatility of the action, her strategy
parallels my own. Javan has shifted as well, I catch the movement from the
corner of my eye, but he’s not my priority.
I hear the crashing of steel at my back.
Roman and Jomunrek.
Lazyra’s eyes flash over my shoulder, holding a split second before
she takes a step back, nodding behind me. I have the smallest of windows to
decide whether to trust this dangerous new opponent. With few other
options, I turn, my blade held out in front of me.
The force of the blow has me staggering back, my boots barely
remaining flat on the ground. Dirt begins to cloud around us as Javan
attempts another slash. My block holds firm but the strength behind his
blow is colossal. While our blades kiss, I release my second khopesh, the
sharpened steel drawing its first blood of the day, the wound in his thigh
shallow but wide. Javan steps back to assess, giving me a wide berth. I turn
to find Lazyra eyeing Javan with interest.
“Thanks, I guess?” My confusion is palpable.
“I seek a solo victory over the Ker. That will not be achievable if he
kills you,” she explains.
“Ah, I see. So, I’ll take the left side?”
“You will take all sides. It is not I he seeks to kill.”
This bitch.
Lazyra steps away, her eyes roaming over to the other fight taking
place in the arena. Javan has quickly recovered, his sword a gentle breeze
overhead as I move to duck. I let my momentum guide, the movement
rolling me over. As soon as my feet find purchase, I turn as quickly as I can,
one knee supporting me in the dirt. I throw up another block, my arm
straining under the weight, as I bring my second blade across, the steel
imbedding into the soft flesh at his ankle.
His howl is deafening.
I quickly release the blade only to hack away again at the now
ravished flesh. It takes four hacks before he collapses, the flesh too mangled
to support his weight any longer. I can’t tell if I’ve chopped the foot clean
off, but I don’t wait to check.
Turning back to my original opponent, I sheath one of my blades.
“Ready to meet the boatman, Ker?”
The woman moves like a jaguar, her maneuvers smooth, predatory.
Her strikes are effortless, calculated, her steel an extended limb. I take a
beating, throwing everything I have in return. She counters my strikes steel
for steel. I’d have to imagine this must be what it’s like to be locked in
battle against oneself.
The dust clouds have matured, the dirty powder invading the air
around us. I can feel my throat clogging, breathing a challenge of its own.
I’m soaked, sweat cascading down my body in tides. The rise fall of her
chest tells me she, too, is draining.
Our dance has taken us to the far corner of the arena, Roman locked
in combat at the other end. Just as I feel myself gaining the upper hand, she
unleashes a hidden dagger. The execution is exquisite, the blade clipping
me in the left shoulder, lodged down to the hilt. Removing the steel in one
quick swipe, I narrowly miss her second attack as the dagger skims the
flesh at my neck. The area stings, the blade likely breaking skin. The wound
at my shoulder runs crimson, the blood mingling with the ivory ink etched
along my arm.
With little time for reprieve, I quickly bring up my right khopesh,
the steel holding strong against her haladie. Our blades now locked, Lazyra
wastes no time raising her bloody dagger, the stab a perfect aim to the heart.
On instinct I raise my injured arm, my trusty metal cuffs nowhere in sight
as the blade slices clean though my forearm. The pain is unimaginable as I
rear back, the dagger smoothly slipping free.
With my breaths numbered, I quickly unsheathe my second
khopesh. Lunging, I aim my blades for the soft flesh of her neck, mimicking
the movements for a red smile. She’s as quick as I predicted, leaning back,
slipping just below the swipe, but I’m prepared. She never sees it coming,
the turn, the twin blades merging as one, sinking hilt deep into the soft
tissue of her stomach. Though I attempted to skirt any major organs, the
mated blades leave a gaping wound in her stomach.
Leaving her there for the moment, I gather my bearings before
racing across the arena, the blood leaking from my shoulder, my forearm,
leaving a bloody path in my wake. I see Javan huddled in a corner, barely
conscious, his leg a thing of nightmares. The crowd has gone manic, the
sight of imminent death driving their insatiable lust for blood.
I’ll be sure mourn his death later.
Roman’s hardly able to remain vertical, his sword arm ripped open,
the raw flesh beneath exposed and unprotected. He’s got slash marks
running along his legs, the leather of his uniform in scraps. His breastplate
seems to be holding, the once glistening metal now scratched and dented.
The ground below him is blotted ruby, the color splattered across the dirt.
With Jomunrek closing in, I run with all I have left to offer.
My limbs snarl at me, roaring for reprieve, my fingers numbing
around the hilt of my blades. I feel a headache forming, a wooziness settling
in, but I just drive my body harder, propelling my legs across the dirt.
Dismissing any foolish notions of disarming the giant, I impale my right
blade straight through the center of Jomunrek’s back. Taking a small step
backward, I leave my blade be, waiting for him to collapse. Judging the
Clash to be over, I’m not anticipating an attack.
I don’t see it coming, completely caught off-guard when he turns on
me, backhanding me across the face. I go down hard, the blow driving me
to the ground. The compacted dirt adds little comfort as my head collides
with the arena floor, my sheath pressing into my back. I can feel the blood
leaking from my right cheek, the claws having found their mark. I lose my
second khopesh in the fall, the dagger in my boot too far out of a reach. I
can barely move, let alone think, so when I spy the monstrosity standing
over me, I know the end is near.
Thinking of Iren and Eon, I perform one last prayer to keep them
safe.
Welcoming my death, I almost miss the sight of Roman ripping my
logged khopesh free of Jomunrek’s back, impaling the blade clean through
the giant’s throat. The blood spurting from his wound rains down around
me, sprinkling my neck and face in the gory substance. Sensing his plunge,
I have the good sense to roll away before his corpse can finish me off.
Tossing aside my now dripping blade, Roman offers me a hand up.
Barely able to move my blood-soaked and dirt crusted left arm, I give him
my right. “Fucking gods.” Roman’s horror only confirms my suspicion.
Releasing a leather sheath at his thigh, he tightly begins binding the
material around my left forearm. A hiss of pain and snarled expletive are all
I can muster in response.
Releasing his second thigh sheath, he begins binding my shoulder
as best he can. “We need to get these stitched up. Let me see the cheek,” he
demands. Giving him my burning side, he carefully examines the bloody
right side of my face. “This will scar, Peia.”
“That’s okay. I’ve got a thing for scars.” His mouth doesn’t even
twitch. “How’s the arm?”
 “Probably won’t be winning any more battles for a while, but I’ll
live. C’mon, we need to get you cleaned up.”
Taking in the carnage, the sight of Lazyra slowly shuffling towards
the Podium, her hands pressed tightly to the wound at her stomach, I mutter,
“I think we tied.”
With a grunt, he helps my retrieve my blades. Tenderly taking my
uninjured arm, he steers us toward the Podium, the ravenous crowd
demanding more violence, more death. Kane rises from his seat to address
the Playground audience, his words too far off to be discernable. Roman
and I are halfway to the Podium when I sense it, the disturbance in the
wind.
Snapping my attention to the eastern bell tower, the structure
standing poised deep in the center of the agora, I can just make out the
whizzing object before it plunges straight through Kane’s heart.
With a thud the Alpha sinks to the floor, his blood splattered across
the tunics of his two sons.
Dead.
Alpha Kaneous Jakobian dead.
And not by my hand.
The Playground erupts into chaos, the spectators shoving out of
harm’s way. Soldiers from every territory rush towards the Podium to
protect their remaining rulers. Roman grabs ahold of my arm tightly,
hauling me out of the line of fire. I shrug him off, yelling something about
getting to Nicias. As we race towards the gathered soldiers, a few more
arrows fly across the sky. Most miss entirely, some mange to hit a few
unsuspecting bystanders.
“Archer is in the bell tower!” I yell to Roman once we’ve reached
our destination. With Nicias having already been escorted out, I’ve made
the assassin my new priority.
“Come on and stay down!” Roman leads the way.
The Playground is pure chaos, citizens herding at the doors,
stampeding their way out. Soldiers shield their leaders from veiled threats.
After commanding all Kruan soldiers to escort Jakobian back to the palace,
Roman and I head out, cutting through the infirmary, escaping out by the
back stables. We stick to the alleyways with me in the lead, my sanguinary
hunger far outweighing any pain, keeping any lightheadedness at bay.
We reach the tower in a manner of minutes, the back route having
been the wiser choice. Tearing through the entrance, I’m shocked to find the
place in shambles. The once majestic staircase snaking along the walls has
collapsed, the stone walls having caved in halfway up. A labyrinth of webs
hangs overhead, their inhabitants swarming the ground at our feet.
“What happened to it?” I ask, flinging an enormous spider from my
arm.
“It’s been abandoned since the Great War. The first Alpha felt a
different location would be more militarily strategic should another war
break out, so he had one built on the palace grounds. After the new one was
constructed, they let this one fall into ruin,” Roman quickly explains.
“How they hell did the archer get up then?”
“They must have scaled it.”
Sure enough, around the outer perimeter of the tower we find the
stones that make up the tower crumbling, with some removed in such a way
that even the most inexperienced of climbers could make their way up using
the gaps as footholds. “You should stay down here,” Roman suggests,
giving my bleeding arm a hard look.
“You should stay down here.” I give his bleeding, unbandaged arm
an equally hard look.
With one last murderous gaze my direction, he takes to the juts and
grooves, the pair of us making short work of the climb. The bell tower’s
highest balcony has been recently disturbed, the dusted ground riddled with
fresh tracks. We follow the circular trail around until we reach the western
edge where the Playground sits perfectly within the line of sight.
“My gods.” Roman exclaims over the view. “We’ve got to be at
least a quarter mile out from the Playground. The shot should’ve been
impossible. There can’t be more than a dozen archers in the world that
could make it.”
“Probably fewer than that.”
And two of them happen to be in Tairheia.
Since one of them fought alongside me in the arena today, that only
leaves the other.
Alek.

OceanofPDF.com
 CHAPTER 38
The run back to the palace is more difficult. Citizens swarm the streets
seeking explanations for the day’s events. Most are worried, frantically
searching for loved ones, while few wail in anguish for the death of their
ruler.
I ignore all of it, none of it making a lick of difference to me. The
only thing I care about is the fact that I’ve failed. Failed my mission and my
sister. The rage consuming me isn’t foreign, rivaling the moment I came to
peer across my eldest brother’s lifeless corpse. My only thought now is of
retribution, swift and merciless.
My victory was stolen from me, and I don’t take kindly to thieves.
The palace is in complete disarray when we reach the courtyard.
Soldiers from every territory are guarding the gates, stalking the yard, each
looking primed and carved for battle. There isn’t an area on the first floor
vacant of warm bodies.
“We’re going to the healer.” Roman begins steering me towards the
rear of the palace.
“I’m fi-.”
“Not negotiable, Hypatia.”
As soon as the healer finishes with my shoulder and arm, I insist
Roman get his taken care of as well. With the two of us looking like hastily
stitched rag dolls, Roman instructs I head up to his room while he goes to
find Jakobian.
With a noncommittal shrug, I take off in the opposite direction as
soon as he’s out of view.
Nicias is nowhere in sight, having been removed from the fray and
sectioned off with his brother in the heavily guarded Hollow. I don’t try my
luck getting in there, knowing he’s safe and with Galen will have to be
reassurance enough. I have more pressing matters to attend to.
 It doesn’t take long to find him.
Hell, he practically finds me.
Alone in my tower, hunched over the bed, profile facing me, sits
Alek.
Alektus.
My Alala.
The soldier responsible for today’s assassination.
I can sense his anguish without a single glimpse of his face.
Carefully, my movements deliberately slow, I set down my sheath near the
door. I yearn to go to him, to offer him solace, but I don’t. I can’t. My anger
is too strong, too vast, smothering any sense of affection until wrath is all
that’s left.
“It was you, wasn’t it?” He doesn’t respond, not that I was
expecting him to. “Why?”
“I had to,” he strangles out.
The admission confirming each of my suspicions. “You were the
original Dire Jakobian selected.” It’s not a question. Enraged by his silence,
I begin loosening the reins on my control. “Did you know he gave me the
task instead?”
“Of course, I knew!” Rising from the bed, his eyes bore through my
layers of shame, branding their way down to my soul. “He would remind
me day after day what would happen if you failed. He said he’d be forced to
order your execution and I’d be the one to carry it out. I couldn’t let you
fail.” I barely hear the last words.
“I didn’t fail. I was never going to fail!” Confusion lines his
features as I continue. “I had him. I fucking had him. He had minutes left,
minutes, if that.”
Shocked, he mumbles, “I don’t understand.”
“Last night at the toast, I had already killed him.”
Wide eyes glossed over, realization sinking in. “The toast. You
poisoned the toast.”
“He would’ve never even finished his victor address.”
Who knew a tome on edible florae could be so dangerous? And
with the poisonous aconite found so close to the agora, it cemented my
damnation.
Alek doesn’t move, the tears spilling over, the first I’ve ever seen
this male cry. “I didn’t know. I thought, I thought…”
 Unable to resist any longer, I rush him. He collides with the
wardrobe before tumbling to the floor. Straddling him, I ram my fist into his
beautiful face. Over and over the structures collide, his teeth leaving gashes
on my knuckles. He doesn’t fight back, barely even shielding himself from
my assault. “Do you know what you’ve cost me! Cost her!”
“I couldn’t let you die, Peia. I couldn’t.” His guilt drenched words
land on deaf ears.
“That wasn’t your place! You’re supposed to be my sword Alektus,
not my shield!” I keep up my throttling until a figure hoists me up off my
Alala. Peering down, I find his face broken and battered, more blood than
skin left, but I’m not finished. I need more. “Get the fuck off!” I curse,
scratching at my captor.
“Enough!” Roman’s bark is harsh, the Grey Commander fully
unleashed. When I fail to calm, he urges more gently, “Enough, Hypatia.
Enough.” Twisting towards Alek he barks, “Get out. Now!” With one last
defeated gaze, Alek leaves. Roman doesn’t release me until he’s cleared the
chamber.
“I didn’t need your help, Roman!”
“I know,” he answers calmly.
“I could’ve taken him!”
“I know that too. But you would’ve killed him. He’s your Alala,
Peia. You can’t just disregard that type of bond. His death would’ve stayed
with you.” He grasps my shoulder, urging me to meet his eyes. “I don’t
want that haunting you for the rest of your days.”
I know Roman’s right, I can feel the recognition at the back of my
mind where rational thought dwells, but I can’t reach it.
I’m not even sure that I want to.
I push him off, making my way over to the window, my eyes
gazing over the view below without really seeing. “You knew it was him?”
I can feel his footsteps drawing closer, his arm lightly brushing
against mine. “I don’t have to be his Alala to know what he’s capable of.
I’m his CO for fuck’s sake. I couldn’t confront him until I talked to
Jakobian. I knew it must have been his doing. Alek really isn’t the type to
go around slaying Alpha’s for kicks.”
The room is stagnant, the air clogged with the revelations hanging
heavy between us. The two of us stare out into the distance, neither ready to
face the other. “How much did Jakobian tell you?”
 “I’d say everything, but we both know he likes to keep his
secrets.”
With a deep breath, I confess. “You should know I went through
with it. And I would’ve succeeded had it not been for that arrow.”
He reaches for the windowsill, his head hanging heavy. In
disappointment or defeat, I can’t be sure. “I know, Peia. And I understand
why. Our biggest concern now is Jakobian. If he’s willing to kill his own
brother, I can only imagine what he’s planning next. But whatever is, you
can bet it’ll tear the Realm apart. He’ll bring the other Beta’s to their knees,
eliminating any who oppose him.”
“He can’t. Kane’s death doesn’t make him the Alpha.”
“No, but I wouldn’t be surprised if the new Alpha shares his
perspective.”
Silas.
“Evil bastard. I bet he had a hand in this somehow.”
“I wouldn’t be surprised.” I see his hands clench around the sill
from the corner of my eye. “Nicias isn’t safe as long as he sits on the
throne.”
“There’s more I have to tell you, Roman. Information I’ve kept
from you,” I blurt out.
He moves to rest his head in his hands, his eyes closed in
resignation, his thumbs kneading the space at his temples. “I thought you
might, but now’s not the time. Gauging how deep the sedition runs is our
main concern. Figuring out the monster wolf’s plan, a close second.”
Turning my back toward the view, our gazes meet for the first time
in minutes. “What are we going to do?”
Meeting the olive eyes of my sanctuary, he declares, “Everything
we can.”

OceanofPDF.com
 CHAPTER 39
The Full Moon Hall is unnaturally quiet as Roman and I enter. Soldiers who
just hours ago howled for blood now stand motionless, the disbelief legible
across each monstrous face. Wolves from across the realm huddle in corners
like nervous hounds, awaiting news from their rulers. It isn’t hard to guess
the thoughts drifting through each uneasy mind.
If the Alpha can fall, what of the rest of us?
My eyes scan the room, searching for the only other Jakobian
male I don’t detest, but he’s not here. And neither is his brother. Reading me
as only Roman can, my thoughts boldly inscribed in large print, he excuses
himself to check on Nis. Alone, revenge ridden, and bloodthirsty, I’m
treading dangerous waters as I find a corner to slink off to, mulling over the
magnitude of my failure.
I wasted so much time planning, so much time convincing myself
to wait a little longer, that I completely botched my task. Not anticipating
Jakobian’s backup plan, I was all but asking for the kill to be pilfered. I’ve
left Iren at the mercy of the monster wolf once again, more vulnerable than
ever before thanks to Jakobian’s scheming. I wouldn’t be surprised if this
whole plan was some sort of power play to ensure he’s vital to the
appointment of the new Alpha of the realm, if it isn’t he himself. Toppling
on, I’m currently on the outs with my own Alala, the man who less than an
hour ago I almost beat to death.
Though staggering, I must admit my greatest shame for the day’s
events is the pain I’ve inflicted on Nicias, one I’ve known all to intimately.
That loss is all consuming, like air being poached from the world, leaving
you gasping. It’s a pain that left me broken beyond restoration and yet I was
instrumental in inflicting the identical wound upon someone I care for.
It seems Jakobian isn’t the only monster wolf roaming the realm.
“Peia,” a voice calls. “There you are. I’ve been searching for you
for over an hour.” Galen is forlorn as he approaches. His lids are heavy,
eyes bloodshot with shoulders hung low in defeat. Any semblance of his
typical churlish demeanor has vanished.
“How is he, Galen?” It’s the first time we’ve addressed one another
by name. I can tell he’s come to the same realization but neither if us says a
word, an unspoken acknowledgement passing between us. He appears to be
struggling, grappling for words as he tries to convey what Nis must be
going through. Frustrated, he answers as honestly as he can.
“Lost.” A single word that speaks mountains.
“Is he safe?” His stance stiffens, eyes hardening fractionally, my
words taken as a challenge. I voice no apologies. “Without you there, is he
safe?” I add to clarify.
“I’ve hand selected each of his guards personally and taken every
precaution to ensure his safety.” I fight the impulse to draw back as he takes
a step closer. “He won’t get near Nicias without losing his head.”
Silas.
I nod my head in agreement, the only response he’s going to get,
when he suddenly remembers his reason for being here. “Almost forgot.
Nicias sent you this.” The tome he hands me is immense, my muscles
straining under the sheer weight of the thing. Based on the tattered binding
and frayed lining, I’d guess the work ancient, written in the time of the old
gods. A theta has been seared onto the front cover, the leather thick and
surprisingly intact. It’s probably the oldest book I’d ever laid my hands on.
“He was having trouble with some of the language. After your run in with
the Shades, I told Nis you might be able to help. He needed something to
take his mind off things.”
I don’t miss the affection in his voice when he mentions the Alpha’s
son.
Balancing the work on my knee, I carefully skim through the first
couple of pages. A loose piece of seemingly new parchment flutters out, the
note folded in half. Galen bends to retrieve it before I get the chance.
Flipping through the volume, I see the parchments badly damaged,
yellowed, and scorched along the edges as if plucked from the pyre. The
script along most of the margins is abysmal, closer to chicken scratch then
actually lettering, but a page towards the middle catches my eye.
The entire tome appears to be written in the Archaic Tongue, but at
the top of the page a short paragraph has been annotated with different
words underlined, their translations scrawled alongside them like snakes on
a page. The words turn my blood cold, but it’s the sinister illustration taking
up the bottom half of the page that has my stomach churning.
The image appears to depict a progression of sorts. Starting on the
left side, an image of a beautiful unclad female, hands thrown up in ecstasy,
writhing in dance has been drawn repeatedly, each overlayed image
marginally off kilter. Though they appear to be mirrors, each overlay of the
female differs slightly. Her round eyes slowly transition to slits, her fingers
elongating, the tips renewed into claws, her two legs writhing until they
mesh into one serpentine tail. The completed nightmare of a transformation
ending on the right of the page is straight from the pits of Tartarus.
There is only one piece of the image that remains the same through
each reiteration.
The large pendant she wears at her neck. The serpent slithering its
way up, fangs searching for purchase.
There is single word written below the depiction.
Taking the tome to the floor, the work much too large to continue
reading while standing, I ask, “Where did he get this?” Galen hands me the
folded note before answering.
“Library recommended it.”
The hunt is on, little wolf, the missive reads.
I’ve never felt more ill. My chest feels ready to fracture, my blood
pumping too forcefully within the cavity. I’m perishing, succumbing to the
torrent rage brewing within, violence the only remedy.
“I’ll get this back to him as soon as I can,” I call out, already
halfway to the door.
“Wait! Where are you off to?” His words barely register as I come
to grips with what awaits.
I try to devise a plan.
Really, I do.
I’m not a fool. I understand the threat, the potential danger I’m
walking into. My mind commands me to wait, but my spirit has never been
one for taking orders. I sprint the entire way down, dodging soldiers and
servants alike, knocking many to the ground. It feels like the fastest I’ve
ever ran, my chest heaving with each pounding step, the sweat seeping into
my eyes, burning with their salty torture.
I halt a single step from the entrance. The large oak doors are
closed, looming over all five feet of me. The chamber beyond is deathly
silent but I know for certain she’s in there. Dropping the massive tome at
me feet, ripping my favorite companion from its sheath, the adrenaline from
the run driving my instincts, I open the door.
Everything in the library appears the same, but I know better than
anyone that looks can be deceiving. The inviting place I had at one time
considered a sanctuary of sorts, I now view as crypt.
A tomb shrouding the unimaginable.
A place where nightmares can roam in plain sight.
Traveling down into the pits of hell, I find the queen of nightmares
herself.
Perched atop the long oak table, the fabric of her ebony dress
draped gracefully over the edge like the darkest of waterfalls, she sits toying
with the lace of her sleeves. As usual, they stretch clear to her wrist,
concealing any flesh beneath. This dress though, is cut low in the front, a
sharp contrast from her usual high collars. In its place, draped around her
neck like a noose, hangs a familiar pendent, the large serpent seeking the
unmarred flesh at her neck.
As I take a step closer, I swear I see the reptile move.
Keeping her attention trained on her ensemble, she mutters, “Do
put that away before you embarrass yourself.”
“This morning you knew what I’d done, didn’t you?” I ignore the
command, keeping my blade pointed her direction. “How?”
Her head snaps up instantly, the movement unearthly fast. When
her eyes meet mine, I notice the change at once. The calming ocean hue of
her eyes is gone, replaced by something sinister, something altogether
reptilian.
With a smile that could chill the sun she asks, “Is that really how
you’re going to start this conversation?”
“How?” I repeat.
Cackling she begins. “The aconite. You thought you scrubbed your
hands clean, but I smelled her all over your murderous little fingers. And
don’t you forget who gave you that tome.” Flicking her tongue across her
bottom lip, she continues. “I was at the Pledge you know. I saw the way you
handed Kane that chalice, your fingers gripping along the rim. I bet you
chose the harshest of spirits just to hide the bitter taste of the poison.” Her
smile is more revolting than her eyes. “Oh, I knew it. Such a clever one, my
little wolf. It’s a shame Jakobian didn’t know. Surely he would’ve called off
the archer.”
Confirming what I already suspected, I ask what I’ve really been
curious about. “If you knew about my plan, why didn’t you tell Jakobian
before the Clash?”
“I thought about it. When I had him in my bed earlier, I almost
came close, but being the honorable man that he is, I knew he’d keep his
word and send your baby sister off. And with you being so predictably
sentimental-” The word drips acid. “I knew it was only a matter of time
before you tried escaping after her.”
“Why was that your concern? Why did it matter to you what I’d
planned on doing?”
Rising from the table, she stalks closer, her eyes never leaving her
pray. In a tone even the gods would fear, she answers, “Because I have my
own task for you, little wolf. I have something of grave importance I need
you to find. Now, let’s get to the real reason you came running down here.”
Perking up once again, she plasters a wicked grin across her features. “So as
of late, have you read anything interesting?”
These words confirm my deepest fears.
“Stop being cryptic,” I demand. “We both know the only reason
you sent Nicias that book was so it’d end up in front me.”
Circling around the table, she takes a seat at the head. “Someone
fancies herself mighty important. But let’s say that was the reason. Did it
divulge any useful information?”
“Apart from the fact that my translation skills are total shit?”
“Ah ah ah. Stop evading, little wolf.” Flicking her tongue once
again she snaps, “Did it aid with your brother’s inscription or not?” The
mention of my brother’s name has me raising my khopesh higher. “Answer
me!”
“Yes,” I seethe. “My first translation was wrong.”
“Tell me then, what is the true meaning behind the words?” I can
see her lifting herself from her seat, her fingers leaving indentations in the
tables wooden surface.
Undaunted, I voice the words she’s so desperate to hear. “Mother of
Monsters, She will raise Him.”
Eyes closed, her head tilts back in euphoric bliss. “Such a clever,
little wolf. Have you figured out anything else?” Probing the answer with
her gaze she warns, “Careful now, a name breathes power. Do you dare?”
She’s goading me, taunting me, and like the fool that I am, I
concede.
“Echidna.” The lone word scribed below that monstrous
illustration. The name an incantation unleashing a plague across the realm
the moment it rolls from my tongue.
Her head tilts back a second time, basking in the acknowledgement.
Coming down from her release, her eyes crack to slits, the serpent within
having finally slithered to the surface. The crimson shade glows brightly in
contrast to the dark elliptical pupil running down the center. The sight is
unnerving, fortifying the knowledge that a human soul lacks within.
“Every word from your lips has been a lie. You never knew my
mother at all, did you?”
“I never lied to you. Not once. I know your mother. I might not
have met that weak woman who gave birth to your flesh, but I damn well
know the one that spawned your soul. The one who gave you your
essence.” I know where she’s going with this and dreadful as it sounds, I
believe her. “You remember what I said about names, little wolf? It’s time
you learned yours.” Strolling over, our chest almost touching, she whispers
one word. “Laelaps.”
Though not the initial time I’ve heard the name, it’s the first
instance it’s been directed at me. The surge of power is immediate, washing
over me like waves on the Tairheian shore, the name releasing what was
once hidden away.
A reawakening of sorts.
I don’t need a reflection to know the arctic blue hue of my now
glowing eyes.
The realization catches up with me soon enough, her encouraging
nod telling me she’s desperate to hear the title. I voice it as a statement, an
absolute, having no doubts about its horrible veracity. The word is muted,
almost inaudible as it passes across my lips.
“Mother.”
I swear the earth trembles a fraction, something deep beneath the
core reawakening. “Ah yes,” she moans. “There’s my beautiful wolf. Now
the fun can begin.”
OceanofPDF.com
 Glossary
Agora – marketplace in Lyca
Alala – goddess or female personification of the war cry
Caryatids – female sculptures that support a structure; used in place of a
pillar or column
Drachmae – monetary currency
Erinyes – aka the Furies; goddesses of retribution and vengeance
Haladie – double edged dagger with two curved blades attached to a single
hilt
Hetaira – type of prostitute
Khopesh – sickle shaped sword with a curved blade
Kline - sofa
Kopis – a curved blade capable of heavy cleaving (e.g., carving into
helmets/armor)
Loutra - temple of marriage ceremonies; couples would visit on their
wedding days for their ceremonial baths
Necropolis – graveyard
Oxygala – similar to yogurt
Labrys – double bitted axe; both symbolic and actual weapon
Phinxa - specialty drink of Nymphai territory made from the distilled
pollen of the dragonfae root
Polis - city
Pornai – type of prostitute; sometimes slaves
Psarosoupa – fish soup
Sai – three-pronged melee weapon
Salphix – trumpet like instrument
Shamazine – person that gives the Dire their tattoos
Shuriken – throwing weapons constructed in different shapes
Stoa – covered walkway
Talanichi – legend from the Tyche Omega Tribe
Tsipouro – strong distilled spirit
Vaiksuna – heart eaters; violent servants of the underworld
Uchigatana – long, single-edged curved blade
Udyska - dialect of the northernmost Forsaken Villages
Xiphos – double-edged straight short sword

OceanofPDF.com
 Acknowledgments
I’ve always been a lover of books, of traveling to new worlds and getting
lost with the characters who inhabit them. Spending time in those worlds, I
realized I wanted to create one of my own. One full of danger and violence,
hope and love. And so, the wolves of Lyca were born. I wrote this story
years ago, back before finishing grad school. I wrote it as a passion project,
a gift to myself. And years later, I finally realized even if not a single person
beside me ever read it, I still wanted to hold a copy in my hand just once.
And here we are.
I want to start with a huge thank you to the most important people in my
life. Thank you, mom. Thank you for being the best mom a girl could have.
Thank you for being my person and my best friend. Thank you for always
supporting me and believing in me. Words will never be able to express
how grateful I am that you’re my mom. It truly is an honor being your
daughter. I love you more.
Thank you, sestra. Thank you for hyping me up like no one else and for
being the best little sister a girl could ask for. Thank you for being my best
friend and number one fan. Thank you for supporting me and always
standing beside me. It is a pleasure and a gift being your older sister. I love
you.
Thank you, dad. Thank you for fostering my love of reading. I love you.
Lastly, thank you reader. Thank you for spending time in my world with
these characters I love so much. Please know how truly thankful I am.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Erica Myers is a lover of books, drinker of coffee, and eater of breakfast
bagel sandwiches. She loves reading, writing, drinking coffee, and eating
food. She loves spending time with her family and going on reading
dates/adventures with her friends.
OceanofPDF.com